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VOL. n. 




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CHAPTER I. Showing how Mi^or Grantly returned to Guestwiek 7 

— " n. Mr. Toogood ........ 18 

— m. The Plumatoad Poxea - .. . .• . . . 43 

— IV. Mrs. Proudie sends for heVLawyer .' . . . 55 

— V. Lily Dale writes Two Words'in her Book . . 67 

— VI. Grace Crawley returns Home . . .... 91 

— Vn. Hook Court . . . ' 100 

— Vm. Jael 113 

— IX. A new Flirtation 128 

— X. Mr. Toogood's Ideas about Society .... 140 

— XI. Grace Crawley at Home 161 

— Xn. Mr. Toogood travels professionally .... 166 

— Xin. Mr. Crosbie goes into the City 187 

— XrV. "I suppose I must let you have it" .... 202 

— XV. Lily Dale goes to London 209 

— XVL The Bayswater Romance 225 

— XVIL Dr. Tempest at the Palace 239 

— XVni. The Softness of Sir Raffle Buffle .... 264 

— XIX. Near the Close 275 

— XX. Lady Lufton's Proposition 297 

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CHAPTER XZI. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton piles her Fagots . . 812 

— XXIT. Why don't yon have an "it" for yourself? . . 334 
-- XXm. Rotten Bow 349 

— XXIV. The Clerical Commission 863 

— XXV. Framley Parsonage 876 

— XXVI. The Archdeacon goes to Framley ... 885 

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Showing how Major Grantly retarned to Guestwick. 

Grace, when she was left alone, threw herself upon 
the sofa, and hid her face in her hands. She was weep- 
ing almost hysterically, and had been utterly dismayed 
and frightened by her lover's impetuosity. Things 
had gone after a fashion which her imagination had 
not painted to her as possible. Surely she had the 
power to refuse the man if she pleased. And yet she 
felt as she lay there weeping that she did in truth be- 
long to hiiQ as part of his goods, and that her gener- 
osity had been foiled. She had especially resolved 
that she would not confess to any love for him. She 
had made no such confession. She had guarded her- 
self against doing so with all the care which she knew 
how to use. But he had assumed the fact, and she 
had been unable to deny it. Could she have lied to 
him, and have sworn that she did not love him? Could 
she have so perjured herself, even in support of her 
generosity? Yes, she. would have done so, — so she 
told herself, — if a moment had been given to her for 
thought. She ought to have done so, and she blamed 

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herself for being so little prepared for the occasion. 
The lie would be useless now. Indeed, she would 
have no opportunity for telling it; for of course she 
would not answer, — would not even read his letter. 
Though he might know that she loved him, yet she 
would not be his wife. He had forced her secret from 
her, but he could not force her to marry him. She 
did love him, but he should never be disgraqed by 
her love. 

After a while she was able to think of his conduct, 
and she believed that she ought to be very angry with 
him. He had taken her roughly in his arms, and had 
insulted her. He had forced a kiss from her. She 
had felt his arms warm and close and strong about 
her, and had not known whether she was in paradise 
or in purgatory. She was very angry with him. She 
would send back his letter to him without reading it, 
— without opening it, if that might be possible. He 
had done that to her which nothing could justify. But 
yet, — yet, — yet how dearly she loved him! Was 
he not a prince of men? He had behaved badly, of 
course; but had any man ever behaved so badly be- 
fore in so divine a way? Was it not a thousand pities 
that she should be driven to deny anything to a lover 
who so richly deserved everything that could be given 
to him? He had kissed her hand as he let her go, 
and now, not knowing what she did, she kissed the 
spot on which she had felt his lips. His arm had been 
round her waist, and the old frock which she wore should 
be kept by her for ever, because it had been so graced. 

What was she now to say to Lily and to Lily's 
mother? Of one thing there was no doubt. She 
voold never tell them of her lover's wicked audacity. 




That was a secret never to be imparted to any ear^. 
She would keep her resentment to herself, and no* 
ask the protection of any vicarious wrath. He could 
never so sin again, that was certain; and she would 
keep all knowledge and memory of the sin for her 
own purposes. But how could it be that such a man 
as that, one so good though so sinful, so glorious 
though so great a trespasser, should have come to such 
a girl s her and have asked for her love? Then she 
thought of her father's poverty and the misery of her 
own condition, and declared to herself that it was very 

Lily was the first to enter the room, and she, be- 
fore she did so, learned from the servant that Major 
Grantly had left the house. "I heard the door, miss, 
and then I saw the top of his hat out of the pantry 
window." Armed with this certain information Lily 
entered the drawing-room, and found Grace in the act 
of rising from the sofa. 

"Am I disturbing you?" said Lily. 

"No; not at all. I am glad you have come. Kiss 
me, and be good to me." And she twined her arms 
about Lily and embraced her. 

"Am I not always good to you, you simpleton? 
Has he been good?" 

"I don't know what you mean?" 

"And have you been good to him?" 

"As good as I knew how, Lily." 

"And where is he?" 

"He has gone away. I shall never see him any 
more, Lily." 

Then she hid her face upon her friend's shoulder 
and broke forth again into hysterical tears. 

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"But tell me, Grace, what lie said; — that is, U 
you mean to tell me." 

"I will tell you everything; — that is, everything 
I can." And Grace blushed as she thought of the one 
secret which she certainly would not tell. 

"Has he, — has he done what I said he would do? 
Come, speak out boldly. Has he asked you to be his 

"Yes," said Grace, barely whispering the word. 

"And you have accepted him?" 

"No, Lily, I have not Indeed, I have not I 
did not know how to speak, because I was surprised; 
— and he, of course, could say what he liked. But 
I told him as well as I could, that I would not marry 

"And why; — did you tell him why?" 

"Yes; because of papa!" 

"Then, if he is the man I take him to be, that 
answer will go for nothing. Of course he knew all 
that before he came here. He did not think you 
were an heiress with forty thousand pounds. If he is 
in earnest, that will go for nothing. And I think he 
is in earnest" 

"And so was I in earnest" 

"Well, Grace; — we shall see." 

"I suppose I may have a will of my own, Lily." 

"Do not be so sure of that Women are not 
allowed to have wills of their own on all occasions. 
Some man comes in a girl's way, and she gets to be 
fond of him, just because he does come in her way. 
Well; when that has taken place, she has no alterna- 
tive but to be taken if he chooses to take her; or to 
be left, if he chooses to leave her." 

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"Lily, don't say that" 

"But I do say it. A man may assure lumself that 
lie will find for himself a wife who shall be learned, or 
beautiful, or six feet high, if he wishes it, or who has 
red hair, or red eyes, or red cheeks, — just what he 
pleases; and he may go about till he finds it, as you 
can go about and match your worsteds. You are a 
fool if you buy a colour you don't want But we can 
never match our worsteds for that other piece of work, 
but are obliged to take any colour that comes, — 
and, therefore, it is that we make such a jumble of 
it! Here's mamma. We must not be philosophical 
before her. Mamma, Major Grantly has — ske- 

"Oh, Lily,what a wordi" 

"But, oh, mamma, what a thing! Fancy his going 
away and not saying a word to anybody!" 

"If he had anything to say to Grace, I suppose he 
said it" 

"He asked her to marry him, of course. We none 
of us had any doubt about that He swore to her 
that she and none but she should be his wife, — and 
all that kind of thing. But he seems to have done it 
in the most prosaic way; — and now he has gone 
away without saying a word to any of us. I shall 
never speak to him again, — unless Grace asks me." 

"Grace, my dear, may I congratulate you?" said 
Mrs. Dale. 

Grace did not answer, as Lily was too quick for 
her. "Oh, she has refused him, of course. But Major 
Grantly is a man of too much sense to expect that he 
should succeed the first time. Let me see; this is the 
fourteentL These clocks run fourteen days, and, 

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therefore, 70U may expect him again about the twenty- 
eighth. For myself, I think you are giving him an 
immense deal of unnecessary trouble, and that if he 
left you in the lurch it would only serve you right; 
but you have the world with you, I'm told. A girl 
is supposed to tell a man two fibs before she may tell 
him one truth." 

"I told him no fib, Lily. I told him that I would 
not marry him, and I will not." 

"But why not, dear Grace?" said Mrs. Dale. 

"Because the people say that papa is a thief!" 
Having said this, Grace walked slowly out of the 
room, and neither Mrs. Dale nor Lily attempted to 
follow her. 

"She's as good as gold," said Lily, when the door 
was closed. 

"And he; — what of him?" 

"I think he is good too; but she has told me 
nothing yet of what he has said to her. He must be 
good, or he would not have come down here after her. 
But I don't wonder at his coming, because she is so 
beautiful! Once or twice as we were walking back 
to-day, I thought her face was the most lovely that I 
had ever seen. And did you see her just now, as she 
spoke of her father?" 

"Oh, yes; — I saw her." 

"Think what she will be in two or three years' 
time, when she becomes a woman. She talks French, 
and Italian, and Hebrew for anything that I know; 
and she is perfectly beautifal. I never saw a more 
lovely figure; — and she has spirit enough for a god- 
dess. I don't think that Major Grantly is sudi a fool 
after all." 

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"I never took him for a fooL" 

"I have no doubt all his own people do; — or 
they will when they hear of it But, mamma, she 
will grow to be big enough to walk atop of all the 
liady Hartletops in England. It will all come right at 

"You think it will?" 

"Oh, yes. Why should it not? If he is worth 
having, it will; — and I think he is Worth having. 
He must wait till this horrid trial is over. It is clear 
to me that Grace thinks that her father will be con- 

"But he cannot have taken the money." 

"I think he took it, and I think it wasn't his. 
But I don't think he stole it. I don't know whether 
you can understand the difference." 

"I am afraid a jury won't understand it." 

"A jury of men will not. I wish they could put 
you and me on it, mamma. I would take my best 
boots and eat them down to the heels, for Grace's 
sake, and for Major Grantly's. What a good-looking 
man he is!" 

"Yes, he is." 

"And so like a gentleman! I'll tell you what, 
mamma; we won't say anything to her about him for 
the present. Her heart will be so fall that she will 
be driven to talk, and we can comfort her better in 
that way." The mother and daughter agreed to act 
upon these tactics, and nothing more was said to Grace 
about her lover on that evening. 

Major Grantly walked from Mrs. Dale's house to 
the inn and ordered his gig, and drove himself out of 
Allington, almost without remembering where he was 




or whither he was going. He was thinking solely of 
what had just occurred, and of what, on his part, 
should follow as the result of that meeting. Half 
at least of the noble deeds done in this world are 
due to emulation, rather than to the native nobility 
of the actors. A young man leads a forlorn hope be- 
cause another young man has offered to do so. Jones 
in the hunting-field rides at an impracticable fence 
because he i^ told that Smith took it three years ago. 
And Walker puts his name down for ten guineas at a 
charitable dinner, when he hears Thompson's read out 
for five. And in this case the generosity and self- 
denial shown by Grace warmed and cherished similar 
virtues within her lover's breast. Some few weeks ago 
Major Grantly had been in doubt as to what his duty 
required of him in reference to Grace Crawley; but he 
had no doubt whatsoever now. In the fervour of his 
admiration he wo aid have gone straight to the arch- 
deacon, had it been possible, and have told him what 
he had done and what he intended to do. Nothing 
now should stop him; — no consideration, that is, 
either as regarded money or position. He had pledged 
himself solemnly, and he was very glad that he had 
pledged himself He would write to Grace and ex- 
plain to her that he trusted altogether in her father's 
honour and innocence, but that no consideration as to 
that ought to influence either him or her in any way. 
If, independently of her father, she could bring her- 
self to come to him and be his wife, she was bound to 
do so now, let the position of her father be what it 
might And thus, as he drove his gig back towards 
Guestwick, he composed a very pretty letter to the 
lady of his love. 

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And as he went, at the comer of the lane which 
led from the main road up to Guestwick cottage, he 
again came upon John Eames, who was also returning 
to Guestwick. There had been a few words spoken 
between Lady Julia and Johnny respecting Major 
Grantly after the girls had left the cottage, and Johnny 
had been persuaded that the strange visitor to Ailing- 
ton could have no connection with his arch-enemy. 
"And why has he gone to Allington?" John demanded, 
somewhat sternly, of his hostess. 

"Well; if you ask me, I think he has gone there 
to see your cousin, Grace Crawley." 

"He told me that he knew Grace," said John, 
looking as though he were conscious of his own 
ingenuity in putting two and two together very 

"Your cousin Grace is a very pretty girl," said 
Lady Julia. 

"It's a long time since I've seen her," said Johnny. 

"Why, you saw her just this minute," said Lady 

"I didn't look at her," said Johnny. Therefore, 
when he again met Major Grantly, having continued 
to put two and two together with great ingenuity, he 
felt quite sure that the man had nothing to do with 
the arch-enemy, and he determined to be gracious. 
"Did you find them at home at Allington?" he said, 
raising his hat. 

"How do you do again?" said the major. "Yes, 
I found your friend Mrs. Dale at home." 

"But not her daughter, or my cousin? They were 
up there; — where I've come from. But, perhaps, 
they had got back before you left." 




"I saw them both. They found me on the road 
with Mr. Dale." 

"What, — the squire? Then you have seen every- 

"Everybody I wished to see at Allington." 
"But you wouldn't stay at the 'Red Lion?'" 
"Well, no. I remembered that I wanted to get 
back to London; and as I had seen my friends, I 
thought I might as well hurry away." 
"You knew Mrs. Dale before, then?" 
"No, I didn't. I never saw her in my life before. 
But I knew the old squire when I was a boy. How- 
ever, I should have said friend. I went to see one 
friend, and I saw her." 

John Eames perceived that his companion put a 
strong emphasis on the word "her," as though he were 
determined to declare boldly that he had gone to Al- 
lington solely to see Grace Crawley. He had not the 
slightest objection to recognizing in Major Grantly a 
suitor for his cousin's hand. He could only reflect 
what an unusually fortunate girl Grace must be if such 
a thing could be true. Of those poor Crawleys he had 
only heard from time to time that their misfortunes 
were as numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, and 
as unsusceptible of any fixed and permanent arrange- 
ment. But, as regarded Grace, here would be a very 
permanent arrangement. Tidings had reached him that 
Grace was a great scholar, but he had never heard 
much of her beauty. It must probably be the case 
that Major Grantly was fond of Greek. There was, he 
reminded himself, no accounting for tastes; but as nothing 
could be more respectable than such an alliance, he 
Uiought that it would become him to be civil to the major. 

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"I hope yon found her quite well. I had barely 
time to speak to her myself." 

" Yes, she was very well. This is a sad thing about 
her father." 

"Very sad," said Johnny. Perhaps the major had 
heard about the accusation for the first time to-day, 
SLud was going to find an escape on that plea. If 
such was the case, it would not be so well to be parti- 
cularly civil. 

"I believe Mr. Crawley is a cousin of yours?" said 
Ijbe major. 
* "ffis wife is my mother^s first-cousin. Their mo- 
tjlers were sisters." 

"She is an excellent woman." 

"I believe so. I don't know much about them my- 
self, — that is, personally. Of course I have heard of 
this charge that has been made against him. It seems 
to me to be a great shame." 

"Well, I can't exactly say that it is a shame. I 
do not know that there has been anything done with 
a feeling of persecution or of cruelty. It is a great 
mystery, and we must have it cleared up if we can." 

"I don't suppose he can have been guilty," said 

" Certainly not in the ordinary sense of the word. 
I heard all the evidence against him." 

"Oh, you did?" 

"Yes," said the major. "I live near them inBarset- 
shire, and I am one of his bailsmen." 

"Then you are an old friend, I suppose?" 

"Not exactly that; but circumstances make me 
very much interested about them. I fancy that the 
cheque was left in his house by accident, and that it 

The La»t Chrotiide of Samet IL 2 

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got into his hands he didn't know how, and that when 
he used it he thought it was his." 

"That's queer," said Johnny. 

"He is very odd, you know." 

"But it's a kind of oddity that they don't like at 
lihe assizes." 

"The great cruelty is," said the major, "that what- 
ever may be the result, the punishment will fall so 
heavily upon his wife and daughters. I think the 
whole county ought to come forward and take them 
by the hand. Well, good-by. I'll drive on, as I'm a 
little in a hurry." 

"Good-by," said Johnny. "I'm very glad to have 
had the pleasure of meeting you." "He's a good sort 
of a fellow after all," he said to himself when the gig 
had passed on. "He wouldn't have talked in that way 
if he had meant to hang back." 


Mr. Toogood. 

Mr. Crawley had declared to Mr. Robarts, that he 
would summon no legal aid to his assistance at the 
coming trial. The reader may, perhaps, remember the 
impetuosity with which he rejected the advice on this 
subject which was conveyed to him by Mr. Robarts 
with all the authority of Archdeacon Grantly's name. 
"Tell the archdeacon," he had said, "that I will have 
none of his advice." And then Mr. Robarts had left 
him, fully convinced that any fiirther interference on 
his part could be of no avail. Nevertheless, the words 
which had then been spoken were not without effect. 
This coming trial was ever present to Mr. Crawley's 

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MR. TooaooD. 19 

mind, and though, when driven to discuss the subject, 
he would speak of it with high spirit, as he had done 
both to the bishop and to Mr. Kobarts, yet in his long 
hours of privacy, or when alone with his wife, his 
spirit was anything but high. "It will kill me," he 
would say to her. "I shall get salvation thus. Death 
will relieve me, and I shall never be called upon to 
stand before those cruel eager eyes." Then would she 
try to say words of comfort, sometimes soothing him as 
though he were a child, and at others bidding him be 
a man, and remember that as a man he should have 
sufficient endurance to bear the eyes of any crowd that 
might be there to look at him. 

"I think I will go up to London," he said to her 
one evening, very soon after the day of Mr. Robarts's 

"Go up to London, Josiah!" Mr. Crawley had not 
been up to London once since they had been settled 
at Hogglestock, and this sudden resolution on his part 
frightened his wife. "Go up to London, dearest! and 

"I will tell you why. They all say that I should 
speak to some man of tiie law whom I may trust about 
this coming trial. I trust no one in these parts. Not, 
mark you, that I say that they are untrustworthy. 
God forbid that I should so speak or even so think of 
men whom I know not But the matter has become 
so common in men^s mouths at Barchester and at 
Silverbridge, that I cannot endure to go among them 
and to talk of it. I will go up to London, and I will 
see your cousin, Mr. John Toogood, of Gray's Inn." 
Now in this scheme there was an amount of everyday 
prudence which starded Mrs. Crawley almost as much 

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as did the prospect of the difficulties to be overcome 
if the journey were to be made. Her husband, in the 
first place, had never once seen Mr. John Toogood; 
and in days very long back, when he and she were 
making their first gallant struggle, — for in those days 
it had been gallant, — down in their Cornish curacy, 
he had reprobated certain Toogood civilities, — pro- 
fessional civilities, — which had been proffered, per- 
haps, with too plain an intimation that on the score of 
relationship the professional work should be done with- 
out payment The Mr. Toogood of those days, who 
had been Mrs. Crawley's uncle, and the father of Mrs. 
Eames and grandfather of our friend Johnny Eames, 
had been much angered by some correspondence which 
had grown up between him and Mr. Crawley, and 
from that day there had been a cessation of all inter- 
course between the families. Since those days that 
Toogood had been gathered to the ancient Toogoods 
of old, and the son reigned on the family throne in 
Raymond's Buildings. The present. Toogood was 
therefore first-cousin to Mrs. Crawley. But there had 
been no intimacy between them. Mrs. Crawley had 
not seen her cousin since her marriage, — as indeed 
she had seen none of her relations, having been 
estranged from them by the singular bearing of her 
husband. She knew that her cousin stood high in his 
profession, the firm of Toogood and Crump, — Crump 
and Toogood it should have been properly called in 
these days, — having always held its head up high 
above all dirty work; and she felt that her husband 
could look for advice from no better source. But how 
would such a one as he manage to tell his story to a 
stranger? Nay, how would he find his way alone into 

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the lawyer's room, to tell Iris story at all, — so strange 
was he to the world? And then the expense I "If you 
do not wish me to apply to your cousin, say so, and 
there shall he an end of it," said Mr. Crawley in an 
angry tone. 

"Of course I would wish it. I helieve him to he 
an excellent man, and a good lawyer." 

"Then why should I not go to his chamhers? In 
formS, pauperis I must go to him, and must tell him so. 
I cannot pay him for the lahour of his counsel, nor for 
such minutes of his time as I shall use." 

" Oh, Josiah, you need not speak of that" 

"But I must speak of it Can I go to a profes- 
sional man, who keeps as it were his shop open for 
those who may think fit to come, and purchase of him, 
and take of Ids goods, and afterwards, when the goods 
have heen used, tell him that I have not the price in 
my hand? I will not do that, Mary. You think that 
I am mad, that I know not what I do. Yes, — I see 
it in your eyes; and you are sometimes partly right 
But I am not so mad hut that I know what is honest. 
I will tell your cousin that I am sore straitened, and 
brought down into the very dust by misfortune. And 
I will beseech him, for what of ancient feeling of 
family he may bear to you, to listen to me for a while. 
And I will be very short, and, if need be, will bide 
his time patiently, and perhaps he may say a word to 
me that may be of use." 

There was certainly very much in this to provoke 
Mrs. Crawley. It was not only that she knew well 
that her cousin would give ample and immediate atten* 
tion, and lend himself thoroughly to the matter without 
any idea of payment, — but that she could not quite 

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believe that her husband's bumility was true humility. 
She strove to believe it, but knew that she failed. 
After all it was only a feeling on her part There was 
no argument within herself about it. An unpleasant 
taste came across the palate of her mind, as such a 
savour will sometimes, from some unexpected source, 
come across the palate of the mouth. Well; she could 
only gulp at it, and swallow it and excuse it Among 
the salad that comes firom your garden a bitter leaf 
will now and then make its way into your salad-bowl. 
Alas, there were so many bitter leaves ever making 
their way into her bowl I "What I mean is, Josiah, 
that no long explanation will be needed. I think, from 
what I remember of him, that he would do for us any- 
thing that he could do." 

"Then I will go to the man, and will humble my- 
self before him. Even that, hard as it is to me, may 
be a duty that I owe." Mr. Crawley as he said this 
was remembering the fact that he was a clergyman of 
the Church of England, and that he had a rank of his 
own in the country, which, did he ever do such a thing 
as go out to dinner in company, would establish for 
him a certain right of precedence ; whereas this attorney, 
of whom he was speaking, was, so to say, nobody in 
the eyes of the world. 

"There need be no humbling, Josiah, other than 
that which is due from man to man in all circum- 
stances. But never mind; we will not talk about that. 
If it seems good to you, go to Mr. Toogood. I think 
that it is good. May I write to him and say that you 
will go?" 

"I will write myself; it will be more seemly." 

Then the wife paused before she asked the next 

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2lfR. TOOGOOD. 23 

qaestion, — paused for some minute or two, and then 
asked it with anxious doubt, — "And may I go with 
you, Josiah?" 

"Why should two go when one can do the work?" 
he answered sharply. "Have we money so much at 

"Indeed, no." 

"You should go and do it all, for you are wiser in 
these things than I am, were it not that I may not 
dare to show — that I submit myself to my wife." 

"Nay, my dear!" 

"But it ie ay, my dear. It is so. This is a thing 
such as men do; not such as women do, unless they 
be forlorn and unaided of men. I know that I am 
weak where you are strong; that I am crazed where 
you are clear-witted. 

"I meant not that, Josiah. It was of your health 
that I thought" 

"Nevertheless it is as I say; but, for all that, it 
may not be that you should do my work. There are 
those watching me who would say, 'Lol he confesses 
himself incapable.' And then some one would whisper 
something of a madhouse. Mary, I fear that worse 
than a prison." 

"May Grod in His mercy forbid such cruelty I" 

"But I must look to it, my dear. Do you think 
that that woman, who sits there at Barchester in high 
places, disgracing herself and that puny ecclesiastical 
lord who is her husband, — do you think that she 
would not immure me if she could? She is a she- wolf, 
— only less reasonable than the dumb brute as she 
sharpens her teeth in malice coming from anger, and 
not in malice coming from hunger as do the outer 

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wolves of the forest I tell you, Mary, that if she had 
a colourahle ground for her action, she would swear 
to-morrow that I am mad." 

"You shall go alone to London." 

"Yes, I will go alone. They shall not say that I 
cannot yet do my own work as a man should do it I 
stood up before him, the puny man who is called a 
bishop, and before her who makes herself great by his 
littleness, and I scorned them both to their faces. 
Though the shoes which I had on were all broken, as 
I myself could not but see when I stood, yet I was 
greater than they were with all their purple and fine 

"But, Josiah, my cousin will not be harsh to you." 

"Well, — and if he be not?" 

" Ill-usage you can bear; and violent ill-usage, such 
as that which Mrs. Proudie allowed herself to exhibit, 
you can repay with interest; but kindness seems to be 
too heavy a burden for you." 

"I will struggle. I will endeavour. I will speak 
but little, and, if possible, I will listen much. Now, 
my dear, I will write to this man, and you shall give 
me the address that is proper for him." Then he wrote 
the letter, not accepting a word in the way of dictation 
from his wife, but "craving the great kindness of a 
short interview, for which he ventured to become a 
solicitor, urged thereto by his wife's assurance that one 
with whom he was connected by family ties would do 
as much as this for the possible preservation of the 
honour of the family." In answer to this, Mr. Toogood 
wrote back as follows: — "Dear Mr. Crawley, I will 
be at my office all Thursday morning next from ten to 
two, and will take care that you shan't be kept waiting 

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for me above ten minutes. Tou parsons never like 
waiting. But hadn't you better come and breakfast 
with me and Maria at nine ? then we'd have a talk as 
we walk to the office. Yours always, Thomas Toogood." 
And the letter was dated from the attorney's private 
house in Tavistock Square. 

'^I am sure he means to be kind," said Mrs. 

** Doubtless he means to be kind. But his kindness 
is rough; -^ I will not say unmannerly, as the word 
would be harsh. I have never even seen the lady 
whom he calls Maria." 

"She is his wife!" 

"So I would venture to suppose; but she is un- 
known to me. I will write again, and thank him, and 
say that I will be with him at ten to the moment." 

There were still many things to be settled before 
the journey could be made. Mr. Crawley, in his first 
plan, proposed that he should go up by night mail 
train, travelling in the third class, having walked over 
to Silverbridge to meet it; that he should then walk 
about London from 5 a.m. to 10 a.m., and afterwards 
come down by^an afternoon train to which a third 
class was also attached. But at last his wife persuaded 
him that such a task as that, performed in the middle 
of the winter, would be enough to kill any man, and 
that, if attempted, it would certainly kill him; and he 
consented at last to sleep the night in town, — being 
specially moved thereto by discovering that he could, 
in conformity with this scheme, get in and out of the 
train at a station considerably nearer to him than 
Silverbridge, and that he could get a return-ticket at a 
third-class fare. The whole journey, he found, could 

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be done for a pound, allowing him seven sliillings for 
his night's expenses in London; and out of the re- 
sonrces of the family there were produced two so- 
vereigns, so that in the event of accident he would not 
utterly be a castaway from want of funds. 

So he started on his journey after an early dinner, 
almost hopeful through the new excitement of a journey 
to London, and his wife walked with him nearly as far 
as the station. "Do not reject my cousin's kindness," 
were the last words she spoke. 

"For his professional kindness, if he will extend it 
to me, I will be most thankful," he replied. She did 
not dare to say more; nor had she dared to write 
privately to her cousin, asking for any special help, 
lest by doing so she should seem to impugn the suffi- 
ciency and stability of her husband's judgment He 
got up to town late at night, and having made inquiry 
of one of the porters, he hired a bed for himself in the 
neighbourhood of the railway station. Here he had a 
cup of tea and a morsel of bread-and-butter, and in the 
morning he breakfasted again on the same fare. "No, 
I have no luggage," he had said to the girl at the 
public-house, who had asked him as to his travelling 
gear. "If luggage be needed as a certificate of re- 
spectability, I will pass on elsewhere," said he. The 
girl stared, and assured him that she did not doubt his 
respectability. "I am a clergyman of the Church of 
England," he had said, "but my circumstances prevent 
me from seeking a more expensive lodging." They 
did their best to make him comfortable, and, I think, 
almost disappointed him in not heaping frirther mis- 
fortunes on his head. 

He was in Kaymond's Buildings at half- past nine, 

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and for half an hour walked up and down the nm* 
brageous pavement, — it used to be umbrageous, but 
perhaps the trees have gone now, — before the doors 
of the various chambers. He could hear the clock 
strike from Gray's Inn; and the moment that it had 
struck he was turning in, but was encountered in the 
passage by Mr. Toogood, who was equally punctual 
with himself. Strange stories about Mr. Crawley had 
reached Mr. Toogood's household, and that Maria, the 
mention of whose Christian name had been so offensive 
to the clergyman, had begged her husband not to be a 
moment late. Poor Mr. Toogood, who on ordinary 
days did perhaps take a few minutes' grace, was thus 
hurried away almost with his breakfast in his throat, 
and, as we have seen, just saved himself. "Perhaps, 
sir, you are Mr. Crawley?" he said, in a good-humoured, 
cheery voice. He was a good-humoured, cheery-looking 
man, about fifty years of age, with grizzled hair and 
sunburnt face, and large whiskers. Nobody would have 
taken him to be a partner in any of those great houses 
of which we have read in history, — the Quirk, Gam- 
mon and Snaps of the profession, or the Dodson and 
Foggs, who are immortal. 

"That is my name, sir," said Mr. Crawley, taking 
off his hat and bowing low, "and I am here by appoint- 
ment to meet Mr. Toogood, the solicitor, whose name I 
see affixed upon the door-post." 

"I am Mr. Toogood, the solicitor, and I hope I 
see you quite well, Mr. Crawley." Then the attorney 
shook hands with the clergyman and preceded him up- 
stairs to the front room on the first floor. "Here we 
are, Mr. Crawley, and pray take a chair. I wish you 
could have made it convenient to come and see us at 

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liome. We are rather long, as my wife says, — long 
in family, she means, and therefore are not very well 
off for spare beds — " 

"Oh, sir." 

"I've twelve of 'em living, Mr. Crawley, — from 
eighteen years, the eldest, — a girl, down to eighteen 
months the youngest, — a boy, and they go in and 
out, boy and girl, boy and girl, like the cogs of a 
wheel. They ain't such far away distant cousins from 
your own young ones — only first, once, as we 
call it." 

"I am aware that there is a family tie, or I should 
not have ventured to trouble you." 

"Blood is thicker than water; isn't it? I often say 
that. I heard of one of your girls only yesterday. 
She is staying somewhere down in the country, not far 
from where my sister lives — Mrs. Eames, the widow 
of poor John Eames, who never did any good in this 
world. I daresay you've heard of her?" 

"The name is familiar to me, Mr. Toogood." 

"Of course it is. I've a nephew down there just 
now, and he saw your girl the other day; — very 
highly he spoke of her too. Let me see; — how many 
is it you have?" 

"Three living, Mr. Toogood." 

"I've just four times three; — that's the difference. 
But I comfort myself with the text about the quiver 
you know; and I tell them that when they've eat up 
all the butter, they'll have to take their bread dry." 

"I trust the young people take your teaching in a 
proper spirit." 

"I don't know much about spirit. There's spirit 
enough. My second girl, Lucy, told me that if I came 

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home to-day without tickets for the pantomime I 
shouldn't have any dinner allowed me. That's the 
way they treat me. But we understand each other at 
home. We're all pretty good friends there, thank 
God. And there isn't a sick chick among the boil- 


"You have many mercies for which you should in- 
deed be thankful," said Mr. Crawley, gravely. 

"Yes, yes, yes; that's true. I think of that some- 
times, though perhaps not so much as I ought to do. 
But die best way to be thankful is to use the goods 
the gods provide you. *The lovely Thais sits beside 
you. Take the goods the gods provide you.' I often 
say that to my wife, till the children have got to 
calling her Thais. The children have it pretty much 
their own way with us, Mr. Crawley." 

By this time Mr. Crawley was almost beside him- 
self, and was altogether at a loss how to bring in the 
matter on which he wished to speak. He had ex- 
pected to find a man who in the hurry of London 
business might perhaps just manage to spare him five 
minutes, — who would grapple instantly with the subject 
that was to be discussed between them, would speak 
to him half-a-dozen hard words of wisdom, and would 
then dismiss him and turn on the instant to other 
matters of important business; — but here was an 
easy familiar fellow, who seemed to have nothing on 
earth to do, and who at this first meeting had taken 
advantage of a distant family connexion to tell him 
everything about the affairs of his own household. And 
then how peculiar were the domestic traits which he 
told! What was Mr. Crawley to say to a man who 
had taught his own children to call their mother 

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Thais? Of Thais Mr. Crawley did know something, 
and he forgot to remember that perhaps Mr. Toogood 
knew less. He felt it, however, to be very difficult to 
submit the details of his case to a gentleman who 
talked in such a strain about his own wife and children. 

But something must be done. Mr. Crawley, in his 
present frame of mind, could not sit and talk about 
Thais all day. "Sir," he said, "the picture of your 
home is very pleasant, and I presume that plenty 
abounds there." 

"Well, you know, pretty tolHoll for that. With 
twelve of 'em, Mr. Crawley, I needn't tell you they are 
not all going to have castles and parks of their own, 
unless they can get 'em off their own bats. But I pay 
upwards of a hundred a year each for my eldest three 
boys' schooling, and I've been paying eighty for the 
girls. Put that and that together and see what it 
comes to. Educate, educate, educate; that's my word." 

"No better word can be spoken, sir." 

"I don't think there's a girl in Tavistock Square 
that can beat Polly, — she's the eldest, called after 
her mother, you know; — that can beat her at the piano. 
And Lucy has read Lord Byron and Tom Moore all 
through, every word of 'em. By Jove, I believe she 
knows most of Tom Moore by heart. And the young 
uns are coming on just as well." 

"Perhaps, sir, as your time is, no doubt, pre- 
cious — " 

"Just at this time of the day we don't care so much 
about it, Mr. Crawley; and one doesn't catch a new 
cousin every day, you know." 

"However, if you will allow me, — " 

"We'll tackle to? Very well; so be it. Now, Mr. 

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MR. TOOaOOD. 31 

Crawley, let me hear what it is that I can do for you." 
Of a sudden, as Mr. Toogood spoke these last words, 
the whole tone of his voice seemed to change, and 
even the position of his body became so much altered 
as to indicate a different kind of man. "You just tell 
your story in your own way, and I won*t interrupt 
you till youVe done. That's always the best." 

"I must first crave your attention to an unfortunate 
preliminary," said Mr. Crawley. 

"And what is that?" 

"I come before you in forma pauperis." Here 
Mr. Crawley paused and stood up before the attorney 
with his hands crossed one upon the other, bending 
low, as though calling attention to the poorness of his 
raiment. "I know that I have no justification for my 
conduct. I have nothing of reason to offer why I 
should trespass upon your time. I am a poor man, 
and cannot pay you for your services." 

"Oh, bother!" said Mr. Toogood, jumping out of 
his chair. 

"I do not know whether your charity will grant 
me that which I ask — " 

"Don't let's have any more of this," said the at- 
torney. "We none of us like this kind of thing at 
all. If I can be of any service to you, you're as wel- 
come to it as flowers in May, and as for billing my 
first-cousin, which your wife is, I should as soon think 
of sending in an account to my own." 

"But, Mr. Toogood, — " 

"Do you go on now with your story, FU put the 
rest all right" 

"I was bound to be explicit, Mr. Toogood." 

"Very well-, now you have been explicit with a 

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vengeance, and you may lieave a-head. Let's hear 

the story, and if I can help you I will. When Fve 

said that, you may be sure I mean it. IVe heard 

something of it before; but let me hear it all from 


Then Mr. Crawley began and told the story* Mr. 
Toogood was actually true to his promise and let the 
narrator go on with his narrative without interruption. 
When Mr. Crawley came to his own statement that 
the cheque had been paid to him by Mr. Soames, and 
went on to say that that statement had been false, — 
"I told him that, but I told him so wrongly," and then 
paused, thinking that the lawyer would ask some ques- 
tion, Mr. Toogood simply said, "Go on; go on. FIX 
come back to all that when you've done." And he 
merely nodded his head when Mr. Crawley spoke of 
his second statement, that the money had come from 
the dean. "We had been bound together by close ties 
of early familiarity," said Mr. Crawley, "and in former 
years our estates in life were the same. But he has 
prospered and I have failed. And when creditors 
were importunate, I consented to accept relief in money 
which had previously been often offered. And I must 
acknowledge, Mr. Toogood, while saying this, that I 
have known, — have known with heartfelt agony, — 
that at former times my wife has taken that from my 
friend Mr. Arabin, with hand half-hidden from me, 
which I have refused. Whether it be better to eat — 
the bread of charity, — or not to eat bread at all, I, 
for myself, have no doubt," he said; "but when the 
want strikes one's wife and children, and the charity 
strikes only oneself, then there is a doubt" When he 
spoke thus, Mr. Toogood got up, and thrusting his 

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hands into his waistcoat pockets walked about the 
room, exclaiming, "By George, by George, by George!" 
But he still let the man go on with his story, and 
heard him out at last to the end. 

"And they committed you for trial at the next Bar- 
chester assizes?" said the lawyer. 

"They did." 

"And you employed no lawyer before the magis- 

"None; — I reused to employ any one." 

"You were wrong there, Mr. Crawley. I must be 
allowed to say that you were wrong there." 

"I may possibly have been so from your point of 
view, Mr. Toogood; but permit me to explain. I — " 

"It's no good explaining now. Of course you must 
employ a lawyer for your defence, — an attorney who 
will put the case into the hands of counsel." 

"But that I cannot do, Mr. Toogood." 

" You must do it. If you don't do it, your friends 
should do it for you. If you don't do it, everybody 
will say you're mad. There isn't a single solicitor you 
could find within half a mile of you at this moment 
who wouldn't give you the same advice, not a single 
man, either, who has got a head on his shoulders worth 
a turnip." 

When Mr. Crawley was told that madness would 
be laid to his charge if he did not do as he was bid, 
his face became very black, and assumed something of 
that look of determined obstinacy which it had worn 
when he was standing in the presence of the bishop 
and Mrs. Proudie. "It may be so," he said. "It may 
be as you say, Mr. Toogood. But these neighbours of 
yours, as to whose collected wisdom you speak with so 

Th4 Last Okronich of Bars$t, IL 3 f^^^^I^ 

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mucli certainty, would hardly recommend me to indulge 
in a luxury for which I have no means of paying." 

''Who thinks about paying under such circumstances 
as these?" 

"I do, Mr. Toogood." 

"The wretchedest costermonger that comes to grief 
has a barrister in a wig and gown to give him his . 
chance of escape." 

"But I am not a costermonger, Mr. Toogood, — 
though more wretched perhaps tiian any costermonger 
now in existence. It is my lot to have to endure the 
sufferings of poverty, and at the same time not to be 
exempt from those feelings of honour to which poverty 
is seldom subject I cannot afford to call in legal 
assistance for which I cannot pay, — and I will not 
do it." 

"I'll carry the case through fwp you. It certainly 
is not just my line of business, — but I'll see it carried 
through for you." 

"Out of your own pocket?" 

"Never mind; when I say I'll do a thing, I'll 
do it." 

"No, Mr. Toogood; this thing you can not do. But 
do not suppose I am the less gratefid." 

"What is it I can do then? Why do you come to 
me if you won't take my advice?" 

After this the conversation went on for a consider- 
able time without touching on any point which need 
be brought palpably before the reader's eye. The 
attcmaey continued to beg the clergyman to have his 
case managed in the usual wf^, and w^it so far as to 
fcell Mm that he would be ill-treating his wife and 
famiiy if he contmued to be obstinate. But the clergy- 
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maa was not shaken from his resolve , and was at last 
aUe to ask Mr. Toogood what he had better do^ — 
how he had better attempt to defend himself^ — on the 
understanding that no legal aid was to be emj^yed. 
When this question was at last asked in such a waj 
as to demand an answer^ Mr. Toogood sat for a moment 
or two in silenee. He felt that an answer was not only 
femanded, but almost enforced; and yet there might 
be mneh diMculty in giring it 

"Mr. Toogood^" said Mr. Crawley, seeing the 
attorney's hesitation, "I declare to you before God, 
Hiat my only object will be to enable the jury to know 
about this sad nmtter all that I know mysel£ If I 
could open my breast to them I should be satisfied. 
But then a prisoner can say nothing; and what he does 
say is ever accounted false." 

"That is why you should have legal assistance." 

"We had already come to a conclusion on that 
matter, as I thought," said Mr. Crawley. 

Mr. Toogood paused for another moment or two, 
and then dashed at his answer; or rather, dashed at a 
counter question. "Mr. Crawley, where did you get 
the cheque? You must pardon me, you know; or, if 
you wish it, I will not press the question. But so n(uch 
hangs on that, you know." 

"Every thing would hang on it, — if I only knew." 

"You mean that you forget?" 

"Absolutely; totally. I wish, Mr. Toogood, I could 
explain to yoo the toilsome perseverance with which I 
have cudgelled my poor braitis, endeavouring to re- 
tract from them some scintilla of memory that would 
aid me." 

"Could you have pid^ed it up in the house?" 

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"No; — no; that I did not do. Dull as I am, I 
know so much. It was mine of right, from whatever 
source it came to me. I know myself as no one else 
can know me, in spite of the wise man's motto. Had 
I picked up a cheque in my house, or on the road, I 
should not have slept till I had taken steps to restore 
it to the seeming owner. So much I can say. But, 
otherwise, I am in such matters so shandypated, that I 
can trust myself to be sure of nothing. I thought — I 
certainly thought — " 

"You thought what?" 

"I thought that it had been given to me by my 
friend the dean. I remember well that I was in his 
library at Barchester, and I was somewhat provoked in 
spirit. There were lying on the floor hundreds of 
volumes, all glittering with gold, and reeking with new 
leather from the binders. He asked me to look at his 
toys. Why should I look at them? There was a time, 
but the other day it seemed, when he had been glad 
to bon'ow from me such treasures as I had. And it 
seemed to me that he was heartless in showing me 
these things. Well; I need not trouble you with all 

"Go on; — rgo on. Let me hear it all, and I shall 
learn something." 

"I know now how vain, how vile I was. I always 
know afterwards how low the spirit has grovelled. I 
had gone to him then because I had resolved to humble 
myself, and, for my wife^s sake, to ask my friend — 
for money. With words which were very awkward, 
— which no doubt were ungracious — I had asked 
him, and he had bid me follow him from his hall into 
his library. There he left me awhile, and on returning 

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told me with a smile that he had sent for money, — 
and, if I can remember, the sum he named was fifty 

"But it has turned out, as you say, that you have 
payed fifty pounds with his money — besides the 

"That is true; — that is quite true. There is no 
doubt of that But as I was saying, — then he fell to 
talking about the books, and I was angered. I was 
very^ sore in my heart. From the moment in which 
the words of beggary had passed from my lips', I had 
repented. And he had laughed and had taken it gaily. 
I turned upon him and told him that I had changed 
my mind. I was grateful, but I would not have his 
money. And so I prepared to go. But he argued with 
me, and would not let me go, — telling me of my wife 
and of my children, and while he argued there came 
a knock at the door, and something was handed in, 
and I knew that it was the hand of his wife." 

"It was the money, I supgose?" 

"Tes, Mr. Toogood; it was the money. And I 
became tiie more uneasy, because shcT herself is rich. 
I liked it the less because it seemed to come from her 
hand. But I took it. What could I do when he re- 
minded me that I could not keep my parish unless 
certain sums were paid? He gave me a little parcel 
in a cover, and I took it, — and left him sorrowing. 
I had never before come quite to that; — though, 
indeed, it had in fact been often so before. What was 
the difference whether the alms were given into my 
hands or into my wife's?" 

"You are too touchy about it all, Mr. Crawley." 

"Of course I am. Do you try it, and see whether 

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yoa will be touchy. You have worked hard at youf 
profession, I daresay." 

"Well, yes; pretty well. To tell the truth, I havo 
worked hard. By George, yes! It's not so bad now 
as it used to be." 

"But you have always earned your bread; bread 
for yourself, and bread for your wife and Uttle ones. 
You can buy tickets for the play." 

"I couldn't always buy tickets, mind you." 

"I have worked as hard, and yet I cannot get 
bread. I am older than you, and I cannot earn my 
bare bread. Look at my clothes. If you had to go 
and beg from ]\Ir. Crump, would not you be touchy?" 

"As it happens. Crump isn't so well off as I am." 

"Never mind. But I took it, and went home, and 
for two days I did not look at it. And then there 
came an illness upon me, and I know not what passed. 
But two men who had been hard on me came to the 
house when I was out, and my wife was in a terrible 
state; and I gave her the money, and she went into 
Silver bridge and paid them.^' 

"And this cheque was with what you gave her?" 

"No; I gave her money in notes, — just fifty 
pounds. When I gave it her, I thought I gave it all; 
and yet afterwards I thought I remembered that in my 
illness I had found the cheque with the dean's money. 
But it was not so." 

"You are sure of that?" 

"He has said that he put five notes of 102. each 
into the cover, and such notes I certainly gave to my 

"Where then did you get the cheque?" Mr. 
Crawley again paused before he answered. "Surely, 

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if you will exert your mind, you will remember,'* said 
the lawyer. "Where did you get the cheque?" 

"I do not know," 

Mr. Toogood threw himself back in his chair, took 
his knee up into his lap to nurse it, and began to think 
of it. He sat thinking of it for some minutes without 
a word, — perhaps for five minutes, though the time 
seemed to be much longer to Mr. Crawly, who was, 
however, determined that he would not interrupt him. 
And Mr. Toogood's thoughts were at variance with 
Mr. Toogood's former words. Perhaps, after all, this 
scheme of Mr. Crawley's, — or rather the mode of 
defence on which he had resolved without any scheme, 
— might be the best of which the case admitted. It 
might be well that he should go into court without a 
lawyer. "He has convinced me of his innocence," 
Mr. Toogood said to himself, "and why should he not 
convince a jury? He has convinced me, not because 
I am specially soft, or because I love the man, — for 
as to that I dislike him rather than otherwise*, — but 
because there is either real truth in his words, or else 
so well-feigned a show of truth that no jury can tell 
the difference. I think it is true. By George, I think 
he did get the twenty pounds honestly, and that he 
does not this moment know where he got it. He may 
have put his finger into my eye; but, if so, why not 
also into the eyes of a jury?" Then he released his 
leg, and spoke something of his thoughts aloud. "It's 
a sad story," he said; "a very sad story." 

"Well, yes, it's sad enough. If you could see my 
house, you'd say so." 

"I haveii't a doubt but what you're as innocent as 
I am." Mr. Toogood, as he said this, felt a little 

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twinge of conscience. He did believe Mr. Crawley to 
be innocent, but be was not so snre of it as bis words 
would seem to imply. Nevertbeless be repeated tbe 
words again; — "as innocent as I am." 

"I don't know," said Mr. Crawley. "I don't know. 
I tbink I am; but I don't know." 

"I believe you are. But you see tbe case is a very 
distressing one. A jury bas a rigbt to say tbat tbe 
man in possession of a cbeque for twenty pounds sbould 
account for bis possession of it If I understand tbe 
story arigbt, Mr. Soames will be able to prove tbat be 
brougbt tbe cbeque into your bouse, and, as far as be 
knows, never took it out again." 

"I suppose so; all tbe same, if be brougbt it in, 
tben did be also take it out again." 

"I am saying wbat be will prove, — or, in otber 
words, wbat be will state upon oatb. You can't con- 
tradict bim. You can't get into tbe box to do it, — 
even if tbat would be of any avail; — and I am glad 
tbat you cannot, as it would be of no avail. And you 
can put no one else into tbe box wbo can do so." 

"No; no." 

"Tbat is to say, we tbink you cannot do so. People 
can do so many tbings tbat tbey don't tbink tbey can 
do; and can't do so many tbings tbat tbey tbink tbat 
tbey can do! Wben will tbe dean be borne?" 

"I don't know." 

"Before tbe trial?" 

"I don't know. I bave no idea." 

"It's almost a toss-up wbetber be'd do more barm 
or good if be were tbere." 

"I wisb be migbt be tbere if be bas anydiing to say, 
wbetber it migbt be for barm or good." 

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MR. TOOaOOD. 41 

"And Mrs. Arabin; — she is with him?" 

"They tell me she is not She is in Europe. He 
is in Palestine." 

"In Palestine, is he?" 

"So they tell me. A dean can go where he likes. 
He has no cure of souls to stand in the way of his 

"He hasn't, — hasn't he? I wish I were a dean; 
that is, if I were not a lawyer. Might I write a line 
to the dean, — and to Mrs. Dean, if it seemed fit? 
You wouldn't mind that? As you have come to see 
your cousin at last, — and very glad I am that you 
have, — you must leave him a little discretion. I won't 
say anything I oughtn't to say." Mr. Crawley opposed 
this scheme for some time, but at last consented to the 
proposition. "And I'll tell you what, Mr. Crawley; I 
am very fond of cathedrals, I am indeed; and I have 
long wanted to see Barchester. There's a very fine 
what-you-may-call-em; isn't there? Well; I'll just run 
down at the assizes. We have nothing to do in Lon- 
don when the judges are in the country, — of course." 
Mr. Toogood looked into Mr. Crawley's eyes as he 
said this, to see if his iniquity were detected, but the 
perpetual curate was altogether innocent in these mat- 
ters. "Yes; I'll just run down for a mouthful of fresh 
air. Of course I shan't open my mouth in court. But 
I might say one word to the dean, if he's there; — and 
one word to Mr. Soames. Who is conducting the pro- 
secution?" Mr. Crawley said that Mr. Walker was 
doing so. "Walker, Walker, Walker? oh, — yes; 
Walker and Winthrop, isn't it? A decent sort of man, 
I suppose?" 

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"I have heard nothing to his discredit, Mr. Toogood.'* 

"And that's saying a great deal for a lawyer. Well, 
Mr. Crawley, if nothing else comes ont between this 
and that, — nothing, that is, that shall clear your 
memory abont that unfortunate bit of paper, you must 
simply tell your story to the jury as youVe told it to 
me. I don't think any twelve men in England would 
convict you; — I don't indeed." 

"You think they would not?" 

"Of course I've only heard one side, Mr. Crawley." 

"No, — no, — no, that is true." 

" But judging as well as I can judge from one side, 
I don't think a jury can convict you. At any rate I'll 
see you at Barchester, and I'll write a line or two be- 
fore the trial, just to find out anything that can be 
found out And you're sure you won't come and take 
a bit of mutton with us in the Square? The girls would 
be delighted to see you, and so would Maria." Mr. 
Crawley said that he was quite sure he could not do 
that, and then having tendered reiterated thanks to his 
new friend in words which were touching in spite of 
their old-fashioned gravity, he took his leave, and 
walked back again to the public-house at Paddington. 

He returned home to Hogglestock on the same 
afternoon, reaching that place at nine in the evening. 
During the whole of the day after leaving Raymond's 
Buildings he was thinking of the lawyer, and of the 
words which Uie lawyer had spoken. Although he had 
been disposed to quarrel with Mr. Toogood on many 
points, although he had been more than once disgusted 
by the attorney's bad taste, shocked by his low morality, 
^d ahnost insulted by his easy familiarity, still, when 
the interview was over, he liked the attorney. Wheii 

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first Mr. Toogood had begun to talk, he regretted very 
mack that he had subjected himself to the necessity of 
dkoussing his private affairs with such a windbag of a 
man*, but when he left the chamber he trusted Mr. Too- 
good altogether, and was very glad that he had sought 
his aid. He was tired and exhausted when he reached 
home, as he had eaten nothing but a biscuit or two 
dnce his breakfast; but his wife got him food and tea, 
and then asked him as to his success. ^^Was my cousin 
kind to you?" 

"Very kind, — more than kind, — perhaps some-^ 
what too pressing in his kindness. But I find no fault. 
God forbid that I should. He is, I think, a good man, 
and certainly has been good to me." 

"And what is to be done?" 

"He win write to the dean." 

"I am glad of that." 

"And he will be at Barchester." 

"Thank God for that" 

"But not as my lawyer." 

"Nevertheless, I thank God that some one will be 
there who will know how to give you Assistance and ad- 


The Pltunstead Foxes. 

The letters had been brought into the breakfast- 
parlour at Plumstead Rectory one morning, and the 
archdeacon had inspected them all, and then thrown 
over to his wife her share of the spoil, — as was the 
custom of the house. As to most of Mrs. Qrantly's 
Witers, he nev^r made any further inquiry. To letters 




from her sister, the dean's wife, he was profoundly in- 
different, and rarely made any inquiry as to those which 
were directed in writing with which he was not familiar^ 
But there were others as to which, as Mrs. Grantly 
knew, he would be sure to ask her questions if she 
did not show them. No note ever reached her from 
Lady Hartletop as to which he was not curious, and 
yet Lady Hartletop's notes yery seldom contained much 
that was of interest Now, on this morning, there came 
a letter which, as a matter of course, Mrs. Grantly 
read at breakfast, and which, she knew, would not be 
allowed to disappear without inquiry. Nor, indeed, 
did she wish to keep the letter from her husband. It 
was too important to be so treated. But she would 
have been glad to gain time to think in what spirit she 
would discuss the contents of the letter, — if only such 
time might be allowed to her. But the archdeacon 
would allow her no time. "What does Henry say, my 
dear?*' he asked, before the breakfast things had been 
taken away. 

"What does he say? Well; he says . I'll 

give you his letter to read by-and-by." 

"And why not now?" 

"I thought I'd read it again myself, first." 

"But if you have read it, I suppose you know 
what's in it?" 

"Not very clearly, as yet. However, there it is." 
She knew very well that when she had once been 
asked for it, no peace would be allowed to her till he 
had seen it. And, alas I there was not much pro- 
bability of peace in the house for some time after he 
should see it 

The archdeacon read the three or four first lines in 

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silence, — and then he burst out "He has, has he? 
Then, by heavens " 

"Stop, dearest; stop," said his wife, rising from hex 
chair and coming over to him; "do not say words which 
you will sui-ely repent." 

"I will say words which shall make him repent. 
He shall never have from me a son^s portion." 

"Do not make threats in anger. Do not! You 
know that it is wrong. If he has offended you, say 
nothing about it, — even to yourself — as to threatened 
punishments, till you can judge of the offence in cool 

"I am cool," said the archdeacon. 

"No, my dear; no; you are angry. And you have 
not even read his letter through." 

"I will read his letter." 

"You will see that the marriage is not imminent. 
It may be that even yet it will never take place. The 
young lady has refused him." 


"You will see that she has done so. He teUs us so 
himsel£ And she has behaved very properly." 

"Why has she refused him?" 

"There can be no doubt about the reason. She 
feels that, with this charge hanging over her father, 
she is not in a position to become the wife of any 
gentleman. You cannot but respect her for that" 

Then the archdeacon finished his son's letter, utter* 
ing sundry interjections and ejaculations as he did so. 

"Of course; I knew it I understood it all," he 
said at last "I've nothing to do with the girl. I don't 
care whether she be good or bad." 

"Oh, my dear!" 

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"I care not at all, — with reference to my own 
concerns. Of course I wonld wish that the dangbter 
of a neighbouring clergyman, -^— that the daughter of 
any neighbour — Ihat the daughter of any one what- 
soever, — should be good ra^er than bad. But as 
regards Henry and me, and our mutual relation, her 
goodness can make no difference. Let her he another 
Grizel, and stiU such a marriage must estrange him 
from me, and me from him.^' 

"But she has refused Mm." 

"Yes; and what does he say? — that he has told 
her that he will not accept her refusal. Of course we 
know what it all means. The ^rl I am not judging. 
The girl I will not judge. But my own son, to whom 
I have ever done a father's duty with a fttfher's affec- 
tionate indulgence, — him I will judge. I have Warned 
him, and he declares himself to be cas^eless of my 
warning. I shall take no notice of this letter. I shall 
neither write to him about it, or speak to him about it. 
But I charge you to write to him, and tell him that if 
he does this thing he shall not have a child's portion 
from me. It is not that I will shorten that which would 
have been his; but he shall have — nothing!" Then, 
having spoken these words with a solemnity which for 
the moment silenced his wife, he got up and left the 
room. He left the room and closed the door, but, be- 
fore he had gone half the length of the haU towards 
his own stu^, he returned and addressed his wife 
again. "You understand my instructions, I hope?" 

"What instructions?" 

"That you write to Henry and tell him wlatt I say." 

"I will speak again to you about it by-and-by." 

"I will speak no more about it, — not a word 

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more. Let there be not a word more said, bat oblige 
n^ by doiDg as I ask yon.^' 

Then be was again about to leave the room, but 
she stopped him. *^Wait a mcmient, mj dear.'* 
• "Why Bho«ld I wait?" 

"That Jim may listen to me. Surely yom will do 
that, when I ask you. I will write to Heniy, of eenrse, 
if you bid me; and I will give him yovr message^ 
whatever it may be; but not to-day, my dear." 

"Why not to-day?" 

"Because the sun shall go down upon your wrath 
before I becon^ its messenger. If you okoose to write 
to-day yourself, I cannot help it I cannot hinder you. 
If I am to write to him on your behalf I will take my 
instructions fifom you to-morrow morning. When to- 
morrow morning comes you will not be angry with me 
because of the delay." 

The archdeacon was by no means satisfied; but he 
knew his wife too well, and himself too well, and die 
world too well, to insist on the immediate gratifieation 
of Ins passion. Over his bosom's mistress he did eXfOrciBe 
a certain marital control, -^ which was, for instance^ 
quite sufficiently fixed to enable him to hick. down with 
tiiorough contempt on such a one as Bishop Proudie; 
but he was not a despot who could exact a passive 
obedience to every fantasy. His wife would not have 
written the letter for him on that day, and he knew 
very irell that she would not do so. He knew also 
that she was right; — and yet he regretted his want 
of power. His anger at the present moment was very 
hot, — so hot that he wished to wreak it He knew 
that it would oool before the morrow; — and, no doubt, 
knew also theoreticaUy, that it would be most fitting 

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that it should cool. But not the less was it a matter of 
regret to him that so much good hot anger should b^ 
wasted, and that he could not have his will of his 
disobedient son while it lasted. He might, no doubt^ 
have written himself, but to have done so would not 
have suited him. Even in his anger he could not have 
written to his son without using the ordinary terms of 
affection, and in his anger he could not bring himself 
to use those terms. "You will find that I shall be of 
the same mind to-morrow, — exactly," he said to his 
wife. "I have resolved about it long since; and it is 
not likely that I shall change in a day." Then he 
went out, about his parish, intending to continue to 
think of his son's iniquity, so that he might keep his 
anger hot, — red hot. Then he remembered that the 
evening would come, and that he would say his prayers; 
and he shook his head in regret, — in a regret of 
which he was only half conscious, though it was very 
keen, and which he did not attempt to analyze, — as 
he reflected that his rage would hardly be able to 
survive that ordeal. How common with us it is to 
repine that the devil is not stronger over us than he is.^ 
The archdeacon, who was a very wealthy man, had 
purchased a property in Plumstead, contiguous to the 
glebe-land, and had thus come to exercise in the parish 
the double duty of rector and squire. And of this 
estate in Barsetshire, which extended beyond the con< 
fines of Plumstead into the neighbouring parish of 
Eiderdown, and which comprised also an outlying farm 
in the parish of Stogpingum, — Stoke Pinguium would 
have been the proper name had not barbarous Saxon 
tongues clipped it of its proper proportions, — he had 
always intended that his son Charles should enjoy thai 

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inlieritance. There was other property, both in land 
and in money, for his elder son, and other again for 
the maintenance of his wife, — for the archdeacon's 
father had been for many years Bishop of Barehester, 
and snch a bishopric as that of Barehester bad been in 
those days was worth' money. Of his intention in this 
respect he had never spoken in plain language to either 
of his sons; but the major had for the last year or two 
enjoyed the shooting of the Barsetshire covers, giving 
what orders he pleased about the game; and the father 
had encouraged him to take something like the manage- 
ment of the property into his hands. There might be 
some fifteen hundred acres of it altogether, and the 
archdeacon had rejoiced over it with his wife scores of 
times, saying that there was many a squire in the 
county whose elder son would never find himself half 
so well placed as would his own younger son. Now 
there was a string of narrow woods called Plumstead 
Coppices which ran from a point near the church right 
across the parish, dividing the archdeacon's land from 
the Ullathome estate, and these coppices, or belts of 
woodland, belonged to the archdeacon. On the morn- 
ing of which we are speaking, the archdeacon, mounted 
on his cob, still thinking of his son's iniquity and of 
his own fixed resolve to punish him as he had said 
that he would punish him, opened with his whip a 
woodland gate, from which a green muddy lane led 
through the trees up to the house of his gamekeeper. 
The man's wife was ill, and in his ordinary way of 
business the archdeacon was about to call and ask after 
her health. At the door of the cottage he found the 
man, who was woodman as well as gamekeeper, and 

2%« Last CkrwicU of BaraeL U. 4 

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was responsible for fences and faggots, as well as for 
foxes and pheasants' eggs. 

"How's Martha, Flurry?" said the archdeacon. 

"Thanking your revjBrence, she be a deal improved 
pince the mistress was here, — last Tuesday it was, I 

"I'm glad of that It was only rheumatism, I suppose? " 

"Just a tich of fever with it, your reverence, the 
doctor said." 

"Tell her I was asking after it I won't mind get- 
ting down to-day, as I am rather busy. She has had 
what she wanted from the house?" 

"The mistress has been very good in that way. 
She always is, God bless her!" 

"Good-day to you. Flurry. I'll ask Mr. Sims to 
come and read to her a bit this afternoon, or to-morrow 
morning." The archdeacon kept two curates, and Mr. 
Sims was one of them. 

"She'll take it very kindly, your reverence. But 
while you are here, sir, there's just a word I'd like to 
say. I didn't happen to catch Mr. Henry when he was 
here the other day." 

"Never mind Mr. Henry; what is it you have to 

"I do think, I do indeed, sir, that Mr. Thome's 
man ain't dealing fairly along of the foxes. I wouldn't 
say a word about it, only that Mr. Henry is so parti- 

"What about the foxes? What is he doing with 
the foxes?" 

"Well, su*, he's a trapping on 'em. He is, indeed, 
your reverence. I wouldn't speak if I wam't well nigh 
mortial sure." 

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Now the archdeacon had never been a h^mting man, 
though in his earlj dajrs imny a clergyman had been 
in the habit of hunting without losing hk cl^icai 
character by ioing so; but he had lived all his life 
among g^itlemen iii a bontii^ county, and had his 
own very stroiDg ideas about the trapping of foxes. 
Foxes first, and pheasimts afterwards, had iJways be&n 
the rfde with him as to any land of which he himself 
had had the management And no man understood 
better than he did how to deal t^th J&eepers as to thjd 
matter of fox-preserving, or knew better that ke^ers 
wdll in truth obey not the words of their employers, 
but their sympatUes. "Wish them to have foxes, a^ 
pay &ftm^ and they wiH have them,'' Mr. 8owe]^by of 
C^ialdicotes uised to aajr, aind he in his day was reckoned 
to be the beat preserver of foxes ia Bafsetshire. "^TeU 
them to have them, and don't wish it, and pay them 
well, and you won't have a fox to iaterlwe with your 
game. I don't care what a man aays 4f& me, I can read 
it all like a book when I see hie covers drawn." That 
was what |M»or Mr. Sowerby of Chal^Otes used io 
lay, and the archdeacon had hoard him say it a score 
of times, and had learned (to ledaoa. But now hia 
heart i^us not with Hfee £»Xjes, --^ and especially not 
with the foxes on behalf of his son H^iry. "I can't 
hav« Amy meddlsng with Mr. Thoxno," he said; "I t^n't, 
and I wonH." 

**fiut I don't suppose it cba be Mm. Thorne's oarder^ 
yottr tfevereace; and Mr. Henry is rso ipasticular." 

"Of course it isn't Mr. Thome'a ovder. Mr. Thorsa 
h«B bean a hunting mam all Ms life." 

."Bttt he havre guv' up now, your reverenoo^ fie 
aiaH a hmted these 4ifio yeava." 

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"I*m sure lie wouldn't have the foxes trapped." 

"Not if he knowed it, he wouldn't, your reverence.^ 
A gentleman of the likes of him, who's been a hunting 
over fifty year, wouldn't do the likes of that; but the 
foxes is trapped, and Mr. Henry '11 be a putting it jou 
me if I don't speak out They is Plumstei^d foxes^ 
too; and a vixen was trapped just across the field 
yonder, in Goshall Springs, no later than yesterday- 
morning." Flurry was now thoroughly in earnest; and, 
indeed, the trapping of a vixen in February is a serious 

^^ Goshall Springs don't belong to me," said the 

"No, your reverence; they're on the Ullathome 
property. But a word fi'om your reverence would do it 
Mr. Henry thinks more" of the foxes than anything. 
The last word he told me was that it would break his 
heart if he saw the coppices drawn blank." 

"Then he must break his heart." The words were 
pronounced, but the archdeacon had so much command 
over himself as to speak them in such a voice that die 
man should not hear them. But it was incumbent on 
him to say something that the man should hear. "I 
will have no meddling in the matter, Flurry. Whether 
there are foxes or whether there are not, is matter of 
no greait moment. I will not have a word said to annoy 
Mr. Thome." Then he rode away, back through the 
wood and out on to the road, and the horse walked 
with him leisurely on, whither the archdeacon hardly 
knew, — for he was thinking, thinking, thinking. 
"Well; — if that ain't the dam'dest thing that ever 
was," said Flurry ; " but Til tell the squire about Thome's 
man, — darned if I don't" Now "the Sfuire" waa 

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yotmg Sqtiite Qresliam, the master of the East Barset-' 
shire hounds. 

But the archdeacon went on thinking, thinking, 
thinking. He could have heard nothing of his son to 
stir him more in his favour than this strong evidence 
of his partiality for foxes. I do not mean it to be 
understood that the archdeacon regarded foxes as better 
than active charity, or a contented mind, or a meek 
spirit, or than self-denying temperance. No doubt all 
.these virtues did hold in his mind their proper places, 
altogether beyond contamination of foxes. But he had 
jNrided himself on thinking that his son should be a 
country gentleman, and, probably nothing doubting as 
to the major^s active charity and other virtues, was 
delighted to receive evidence of those tastes which he 
had ever wished to encourage in his son's character. 
Or rather, such evidence would have delighted him at 
any other time than the present Now it only added 
more gall to his cup. "Why should he teach himself 
to care for such things, when he has not the spirit to 
eijoy them," said, the archdeacon to himself. "He is 
a fool, — a fool. A man that has been married once, 
to go crazy after a little girl that has hardly a dress 
to her back, and who never was in a drawing-room in 
her life! Charles is the eldest, and he shall be the 
eldest. It will be better to keep it together. It is the 
way in which the country has become what it is.'* He 
was out nearly all day, and did not see his wife till 
dinner-time. Her father, Mr. Harding, was still with 
ihem, but had breakfasted in^ his own room. Not a 
word, therefore, was said about Henry Grantly between 
the father and mother on that evening. 

Mrs, Qrantly was determined that, unless provoked, 

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sie would say nothing to Mm till the fbRowing fliomittg. 
He sli(tald sleep upon his wrath before she spoke to 
him again. And he was equally unwilling to tetxa to 
the subject. Had she permitted it, the next morning 
would have passed away, and no word would have been 
spoken. But this would not have suited her. She had 
his orders to write, and she had undertaken to obey 
these orders, — with the delay of one day. Were she 
not to write at all, — or in writing to send n6 message 
from the father, there would be cause for farther anger. 
And yet this, I think, was what the archdeacon wished. 
"Archdeacon," she said, "I shall write to Hemy 

"Very well." 

"And what am I to say from you?" 
"I told you yesterday what are my intention^." 
"I am not asking about that now. We hope there 
will be years and years to come, in whieh yott m«y 
change them, and shape them as you will. What shall 
I tell him now from you?" 

"I have nothing to say to Mm^ — nothing; no* a 
word. He knows what he has to expect from me^ for 
I have told him. He is acting with his eyes open, and 
BO am I. If he marries Miss Crawley, he must live on 
his own means. I told him that myself so plainly, 
that he can waoit no frirther intimation." ^hen Mra. 
Qrantly knew that she was absolved from the bntden 
of yesterday's messfige, and she plumed herself on the 
prudence of her conduct. On the same morning tke 
archdeacon wrote the following note: — 

''Dear TnotoB, — 
**Mt man teUB me that fbieft have been trapped on 

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Darreirs farm, just outidde ih^ coppices. I know 
nothing of it myself, but I am sure you'll look to it 

"Tours always, 

"T. Gbantly." 


Mrs. Proudlo sends for her Lawyer. 

There was great dismay in Barchester Palace afkei 
the Tisit paid to the bishop and Mrs. Proudie by that 
terrible clerical offender, Mr. Crawley. It will be re- 
membered, perhaps, how he had defied the bishop with 
spoken words, and how he had defied the bishop's 
wife by speaking no words to her. For tht moment, 
no doubt, Mr. Crawley had the best of it Mrs. Proudie 
acknowledged to herself that this was the case; but as 
she was a woman who had never yet succumbed io an 
enemy, who had never, — if on such an occasion I',, 
may be allowed to use a schoolboy's slang, — taken 'I 
a licking from any one, it was not likely that Mi*. 
Crawley would be long allowed to enjoy his triumph | 
in peace. It would be odd if all the weight of die | 
palace would not be able to silence a wretch of a per- 
petual curate who had already been committed to take 
his trial for thieving; — and Mrs. Proudie was de- 
termined that all the weight of the palace should be 
used. As for the bishop, though he was not as angry 
as his wife, he was quite as unhappy, and therefore 
quite as hostile to Mr. Crawley; and was frilly conscious 
^ t there could be no peace for him now until Mr. 
Crawley should be crushed. If only the assizes would 
come at once, and get him condemned out of the way, 
what a blessed thing it would bel But unluckily it 



still wanted tliree months to tlie assizes, and daring 
tliose three months Mr. Crawley would be at large and 
subject only to episcopal authority. During that time 
he could not be silenced by fhe arm of the civil law. 
His wife was not long in expressing her opinion after 
Mr. Crawley had left the palace. "You must proceed 
against him in the Court of Arches, — and that at 
once," said Mrs. Proudie. "You can do that, of course? 
I know that it will be expensive. Of course it will be 
expensive. I suppose it may cost us some hundreds 
of pounds; but duty is duty, my lord, and in such a 
case as this your duty as a bishop is paramount." 

The poor bishop knew that it was useless to ex- 
plain to her the various mistakes which she made, — 
which she was ever making, — as to the extent of his 
powers and the modes of procedure which were open 
to him. When he would do so she would only rail 
at him for being lukewarm in his office, poor in spirit, 
and afraid of dealing roundly with those below him. 
On the present occasion he did say a word, but she 
would not even hear him to the end. "Don't tell me 
about rural deans, as if I didn't know. The rural 
dean has nothing to do with such a case. The man 
has been committed for trial. Send for Mr. Chadwick at 
once, and let steps be taken before you are an hour older." 

"But, my dear, Mr. Chadwick can do nothing." 

"Then I will see Mr. Chadwick." And in her 
anger she did sit down and write a note to Mr. Chad- 
wick, begging him to come over to her at the palace. 

Mr. Chadwick was a lawyer, living in Barchester, 
who earned his bread from ecclesiastical business. His 
father, and his uncle, and his grandfather and grand- 
uncles, had all been concerned in the affairs of the 

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ctiocese of Barcbester. EBs uncle bad been bailiff to 
tbe episcopal estates, or steward, as be bad been called, 
in Bisbop Grantly's time, and still contrived to draw 
bis income in some sbape from tbe property of tbe see. 
Tbe nepbew bad also been tbe legal assistant of tbe 
bisbop in bis latter days, and bad been continued in 
tbat position by Bisbop Proudie, not from love, but 
from expediency. Mr. Jobn Gbadwick was one of 
tbose gentlemen, two or tbree of wbom are to be seen 
in connection witb every see, — wbo seem to be bybrids 
— balf-lay, balf-cleric. Tbey dress like clergymen, 
and affect tbat mixture of clerical solemnity and clerical 
waggisbness wbicb is generally to be found among 
minor canons and vicar cborals of a catbedral. Tbey 
live, or at least bave tbeir offices, balf in tbe Close 
and balf out of it, — dwelling as it were just on tbe 
borders of boly orders. Tbey always wear wbite neck- 
bandkercbiefs and black gloves; and would be alto- 
getber clerical in tbeir appearance, were it not tbat as 
regards tbe outward man tbey impinge somewbat on 
tbe cbaracteristics of tbe undertaker. Tbey savour of 
tbe cburcb, but tbe savour is of tbe cburcb's exterior. 
Any stranger tbrown into cbance contact witb one of 
tbem would, from instinct, begin to talk of tbings 
ecclesiastical witbout any reference to tbings tbeological 
or tbings religious. Tbey are always most wortby 
men, mucb respected in tbe society of tbe Close, and 
I never beard of one of them wbose wife was not com- 
fortable or wbose children were left witbout provision. 
Sncb a one was Mr. Jobn Cbadwick, and as it was 
a portion of bis duties to accompany tbe bisbop to con- 
secrations and ordinations, be knew Dr. Proudie very 
well. Having been brought up, as it were, under the 

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rery wing of Bishop Qrantly, it could not well be tibiAt 
he should love Bishop Grantlj's successor. The old 
bishop and ihe new bishop had been so difPerent that 
no man could like, or even esteem, them both. But 
Mr. Chadwick was a prudent njan, who knew well the 
source from which he earned his bread, and he had 
never quarrelled with Bishop Proudie. He knew Mrs. 
Proudie also, — of necessity, — and when I say of 
him that he had hitherto avoided any open quarrel 
with her, it will I think be allowed that he was a man 
of prudence and sagacity. 

But he had sometimes been sorely tried, and he 
felt when he got her note that he was now about to 
encounter a very sore trial. He muttered something 
which might have been taken for an oath, were it not 
that the outward signs of the man gave warranty that 
no oath could proceed from such a one. Then he 
wrote a short note presenting his compliments to Mrs. 
Proudie, and saying that he would call at the palace 
at eleven o'clock on the following morning. 

But, in the meantime, Mrs. Proudie, who could not 
be silent on the subject for a moment, did learn some 
thing of the truth from her husband. The information 
did not come to her in the way of instruction, but was 
teased out of the unfortunate man. "I know that you 
can proceed against him in the Court of Arches, under 
the 'Church Discipline Act,'" she said. 

"No, my dear; no;" said the bishop, shaking his 
head in his misery. 

'^ Or in the Consistorial Court It's all the same thing." 

"There must be an inquiry first, — by his brothw 
clergy. There must indeed. It's the only way of 

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*^Bnii there has he^i an inquiry, aad he h«3 been 

"That doesn't signify, mj defer. That's the CSvil 

'^And if the Ccril Law conddmns him, and locks 
him up in prison; -^ as it most certainly will do?" 

"But it hasn't done so yet, my dear. I really 
think that as it has gone €0 fkr, it will be best to leave 
it sbb it is till he has taken his triaL" 

^What; leare him there after what occurred this 
morfiing in this palace?" The palace with Mrs. Proudie 
was always a palace, and never a house. "No; no; 
ten thotfeand limes, no. Are you not aware that he 
insulted you, and grossly, most grossly insulted me? 
I was never treated with such insolence by any clergy- 
man before, since I first came to this palace; — never, 
never. And we know the man to be a ^ief ; — we 
absolutely know it. Think, my lord, of the souls of 
his people!" 

"Oh, deajr; oh, dear; oh, dear," said the bishop. 

"Why do you fret yourself in that way?" 

"Because you will get me into trouble. I tell you 
the only thing to be done is to issue a commission with 
the rural dean at the head of it" 

"Tlien issue a commission." 

"And they will take three months." 

"Why shouH they take three months? Why should 
they take more than three days, — ^ or three hours. It 
is all plain sailing,^ 

"These things are never plain sailing, my dear. 
When a bishop has to Oppose any of his clergy, it is 
always made as difficult as possible." 

"More i^ame fbr tkem who make it bo." 

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^'Bnt it is so. If I were to take legal proceedings 
against him, it would cost, — oh, dear, — more than 
a thousand ponnds, I should say/* 

"If it costs two, you must do it" Mrs. Proudie's 
iinger was still very hot, or she would not have spoken 
of an unremuneratiye outlay of money in such language 
as that 

In this manner she did come to understand, before 
the arrival of Mr. Chadwick, that her husband could 
take no legal steps towards silencing Mr. Crawley until 
a commission of clergymen had been appointed to in- 
quire into the matter, and that that commission should 
be headed by the rural dean within the limits of whose 
rural deanery the parish of Hogglestock was situated, 
or by some beneficed parochial clergyman of repute in 
the neighbourhood. Now the rural dean was Dr. Tempest 
of Silverbrfdge, — who had held that position before 
the coming of Br. Proudie to the diocese; and there 
had grown up in the bosom of Mrs. Proudie a strong 
feeling that undue mercy had been shown to Mr. Crawley 
by the magistrates of Silverbridge, of whom Dr. Tempest 
had been one. ^' These magistrates had taken bail for 
his appearance at the assizes, instead of committing 
him to prison at once, — as they were bound to do, 
when such an offence as that had been committed by 
a clergyman. But, no; — even though there was a 
clergyman among them, they had thought nothing of 
the souls of the poor people I" In such language 
Mrs. Proudie had spoken of the affair at Silverbridge, 
and having once committed herself to such an opinion, 
of course she thought that Dr. Tempest would go 
through fire and water, — would omit no stretch of 
what little judicial power might be committed to his 

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hands, — with the view of opposing his bishop and 
maintaining the culprit in his position. '^In such a 
case as this, cannot 70a name an acting nOral dean 
yourself? Dr. Tempest, you know, is very old." "No# 
my dear; no; I cannot.** *^You can ask Mr. Chadwick, 
at any rate, and then you could name Mr. Thumble.** 
^^But Mr. Thumble doesn't even hold a living in the 
diocese. Oh, dear; oh, dear; oh, dear!'* And so the 
matter rested until Mr. Chadwick came. 

Mrs. Proudie had no doubt intended to have Mr* 
Chadwick all to herself, — at any rate so to encounter 
him in the first instance. But having been at length 
convinced that the inquiry by the rural dean was really 
necessary as a preliminary, and having also slept upon 
the question of expenditure, she gave directions that 
the lawyer should be shown into the bishop's study, 
and she took care to be absent at the moment of his 
arrivaL Of course she did not intend that Mr. Chad- 
wick should leave the palace without having heard 
what she had to say, but she thought that it would be 
well that he should be made to conceive that though 
the summons had been written by her, it had really 
been intended on the part of the bishop. "Mr. Chad- 
wick will be with you at eleven, bishop," she said, as 
she got up from the breakfast-table, at which she left his 
lordship with two of his daughters and with a married 
son-in-law, a clergyman who was staying in the house. 
*^Very well, my dear," said the bishop, with a smile, 
— for he was anxious not to betray any vexation at 
his wife's interference before his daughters or the Rev. 
Mr. Tickler. But he understood it all. Mr. Chadwick 
had been sent for with reference to Mr* Crawley, and 
he was driven, — absolutely driven, to propose to hi^ 

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lawyer that this commisBion of inquiry should he 

Punctually at eleven Mr. Ofaadwiok csuner wearing 
a very long face as he watered die palace door, — Ibr 
he ^It that he would in all prohabHity be now cocb* 
pelted to quaj*rel with Mrs. Proudie^ Much be eould 
bear) but ^ere was a limit to his endurance. She liad 
never absolutely sent for him before ^ though she had 
often interfered with him. "I shall have to tell her a 
bit of my mind," he said, as he stepped acroes the 
Close, habited in his best suit of black, with most 
eiact white cravat, and yet looking not quite Kko a 
clergyman, — with some touch of the unde^aker in 
his gait. When he found that he was shown into the 
bishop's room, and that the bishop was there, **~ and 
the bishop only, — his mind was relieved. It would 
have been better that the bishop should have written 
himself, or that the chaplain should have written in 
his lordship's name; that, however, was a trifle^ 

But the bishop did not know what to «tty to him. 
If he intended to direct an inquiry to be made by the 
rural dean, it would be by no means beootning that 
be should consult Mr. Chadwiek as to doing so. It 
ttiight be well, or if not well at «toy rate n^ improper, 
that he should make the appUctttion to Dr. T^oaipest 
through Mr. Chadwiek^, but in that case he mtistgiv© 
the order at once, and he still wished to Avoid it if it 
•w^^re possible. Since he had been in the diocese no 
case so grave as this had been pttshed upon him. The 
intiarvfention of the rural dean in an ordinary wuy he 
had used, ^-^ had been made to use^ — mwe thim 
ontJe, by his wife. A ticar had be^ afbeent « little 
too long from one patish, H^d lltere had >been rumours 

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about brandy-alid-water in another. Once he had been 
very nearly in deep watar because Mrs. Proudie had 
taken it in dudgeon that a certain young rector, who 
had been left a widower, had a very pretty goyernesa 
for his children; and there had been that case, sadly 
notorious in the diocese at the time, of our excellent 
friend Mr. Robarts of Frainley, when the bailiffs were 
in his house because he couldn't pay his debts, — or 
rather, the debts of his friend for whom he had signed 
bills. But in all these cases some good fortune had 
intervened, and he had been saved from the terrible 
necessity of any ulterior process. But now, — tiow 
he was being driven beyond himself, and all to no 
purpose. If Mrs. Proudie would only wait three itoonths 
the civil law would do it all for him. But here was 
Mr. Chadwick in the room, and he knew that it would 
be useless for him to attempt to talk to Mr. Chadwick 
about other matters, and so dismiss him. The wife of 
his bosom would be down upon them before Chadwick 
could be out of the room. 

"H — m — ha. How d'ye do, Mr. Chadwick — won't 
you sit down?" Mr, Chadwick thanked his lordship, 
iwid sat down. "It's very cold, isn't it, Mr. Chad- 

"A bard frost, my lord, but a beautiM day." 
"Won't you come near the fire?" The bishop 
knew that Mrs. Proudie was on the road, and had an 
eye to the proper strategical position of his forcesv 
Mrs. Proudie would certainly take up her position in 
a certain chair from whence the light enabled her to 
rake her husband thoroughly. What advantage she 
might have from this he could not prev^t; — but he 
«o^d so place Mr. Chadwick) that ihe kw^r should 

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be more within the reach of his eye than that of his 
wife. So the bishop pointed to an arm-chair opposite 
to himself and near the fire, and Mr. Chadwick seated 
himself accordingly. 

"This is a very sad affair about Mr. Crawley," said 
the bishop. 

"Very sad indeed," said the lawyer. "I never 
pitied a man so much in my life, my lord." 

This was not exactly the line which the bishop 
was desirous of taking. "Of course he is to be pitied; 
— of course he is. But from all I hear, Mr. Chad- 
wick, I am afraid, — I am afraid we must not acquit 

"As to that, my lord, he has to stand his trial, of 

"But, you see, Mr. Chadwick, regarding him as a 
beneficed clergyman, — with a cure of souls, — the 
question is whether I should be justified in leaving 
him where he is till his trial shall come on." 

"Of course your lordship knows best about that, 
but " 

"I know there is a dif&culty. I know that But 
I am inclined to think that in the interests of the 
parish I am bound to issue a commission of inquiry." 

"I believe your lordship has attempted to silence 
him, and that he has refused to comply." 

"I thought it better for everybody's sake, — 
especially for his own, that he should for a while be 
relieved firom his duties; but he is an obstinate man, 
a very obstinate man. I made the attempt with all 
consideration for his feelings." 

"He is hard put to it, my lord. I know the man 
and his pride. The dean has spoken of him to me 

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more than once, and nobody knows liim so well as 
the dean. If I might ventore to offer an opinion *-** 

'^Good morning, Mr. Ghadwick,*' said Mn. ProndiOt 
coming into the room and taking her accustomed seat 
^^No thank yon, no; I will stay awaj firom the fire, if 
70a please. His lordship has spoken to 70U no doubt 
about this unfortunate, wretched man?" 

"We are speaking of him now, mj dear." 

"Something must of course be done to put a stop 
to the crying disgrace of having such a man preaching 
from a pulpit in this diocese. When I think of the 
souls of the people in that poor village, my hair literally 
stands on end. And then he is disobedient!" 

"That is the worst of it," said the bishop. "It 
would have been so much better for himself if he 
would have allowed me to provide quietly for the ser- 
vices till the trial be over." 

"I could have told you, my lord, that he would 
not do that, from what I knew of him," said Mr. 

"But he must do it," said Mrs. Proudie. "He 
must be made to do it" 

"His lordship wiU find it difficult," said Mr. Chad- 

"I can issue a commission, you know, to the rural 
dean," said the bishop mildly. 

"Yes, you can do that And Dr. Tempest in two 
months' time will have named his assessors " 

"Dr. Tempest must not name them; the bishop 
must name them," said Mrs. Proudie. 

"It is customary to leave that to the rural dean," 
said Mr. Chadwick. "The bishop no doubt can object 
to any one named." 

Th4 La$t ChrotUek of Barnt. JL ^ n \ 

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''And can specially sd^t any clergyman lie pleases 
from ii^t archdeaconry," said the bishop. '^I haire 
knoimiit done.'' 

"The rural dean in such^ case has probably been 
an old man, and not active," said the lawyer. 

"And Dr. Tempest is a very old man," said Mrs. 
Proudie, "and in such a matter not at all trustworthy. 
He was one of the magistrates who took bail " 

"His lordship could hardly set him aside," said the 
lawyer. "At any rate I would not recommend him to 
try. I think you might suggest a commission of five, 
and propose two of the number yourself. I do not 
think that in such a case Dn Temp,est would raise any 

At last it was settled in this way. Mr. Chadwick 
was to prepare a letter to Dr. Tempest, for the bishop's 
signature, in which the doctor should be requ€sted, as 
the rural dean to whom Mr. Crawley was subject, to 
hold a commission of five to inquire into Mr. Crawley's 
conduct. The letter was to explain to Dr. Tempest 
that the bishop, moved by his solicitude for the souls 
of the people of Hoggiestock, had endeavoured, "in a 
friendly way," to induce Mr. Crawley to desist from 
his ministrations*, but that having failed through Mr. 
Crawley's obstinacy, he had no alternative but to pro- 
ceed in this way. "You had b^i;er say that his lord- 
ship, as bishop of the diocese, can take no heed of the 
coming trial," said Mrs. Proudie.. "I think his lordship 
had better say nothing at all about the trial," said 
Mr. Chadwick. "I think that will be best/' said the 

"But if they report against him," said ]y&. Chad- 
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wick, '^yon can only then proceed in the ecclesiastical 
cdnut) — Bii ycmr own expense." 

^^ffd'U hfecrdly be so obstinate as that," said the 

"I'm afraid yon don't know him, my lord," said 
the lawyer. The bkhop, thinking of the scene which 
had taken place in that very room only yesterday, felt 
that he did know Mr. Crawley, and felt also that the 
hope which he had just expressed was one in which 
he himself put no trust But something might turn 
up; and it was devoutly to be hoped that Dr. Tempest 
would take a long time over his inquiry. The assizes 
might come on as soon as it was terminated, or very 
shortly afterwards; and then everything might be well. 
"You won't find Dr. Tempest very ready at it," said 
Mr. Ohadwiek. The bishop in his heart was comforted 
by the words* "But he must be made to be ready to 
do his duty," said Mrs. Proudie, imperiously. Mr. 
Chadwick shrugged his shoulders, then got up, spoke 
his farewell little speeches, and left the palace. 


Lily Dale writes Two Words in her Book. 

John Eames saw nothing more of Lily Dale till 
he packed up his portmanteau, left his mother's house, 
and went to stay for a few days with his old friend 
Lady Julia; and this did not happen till he had been 
above a week at Guestwick. Mrs. Dale repeatedly 
said that it was odd that Johnny did not come to see 
them; and Grace, speaking of him to Lily, asked why 
he did not come. Lily, in her fanny way, declared 
that he would come soon enough. But even while she 

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was joking there was something of half-expressed con- 
sciousness in her words, — as thongh she felt it to be 
foolish to speak of his coming as she might of that of 
any other young man, before people who knew her 
whole story. "He'll come quick enough. He knows, 
and I know, that this coming will do no good. Of 
course I shall be glad to see him. Why shouldn't I 
be glad to see him? IVe known him and liked him 
all my life. I liked him when there did not seem to 
be much about him to like, and now that he is clever, 
and agreeable, and good-looking, — which he never 
was as a lad, — why shouldn't I go on liking him? 
He's more like a brother to me than anybody else I've 
got. James," — James was her brother-in-law, Dr. 
Crofts, — "thinks of nothing but his patients and his 
babies, and my cousin Bernard is much too grand a 
person for me to take the liberty of loving him. I 
shall be very glad to see Johnny Eames." From all 
which Mrs. Dale was led to believe that Johnny's case 
was still hopeless. And how should it not be hope- 
less? Had Lily not confessed within the last week or 
two that she still loved Adolphus Crosbie? 

Mrs. Eames also, and Mary, were surprised that 
John did not go over to Allington. "You haven't seen 
Mrs. Dale yet, or the squire?" said his mother. 

"I shall see them when I am at the cottage." 

"Yes; — no doubt But it seems strange that you 
should be here so long without going to them." 

"There's time enough," said he. "I shall have 
nothing else to do when I'm at the cottage." Then, 
when Mary had spoken to him again in private, ex- 
pressing a hope that iherQ was "nothing wrong," he 
had been veiy angry with his sister. "What do you 

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mean by wrong? Wliat rubbish 70a girls talk! and 
you never have any delicacy of feeling to make you 

^^Oh, John, don't say such hard things as that of 

"But I do say them. You'll make me swear among 
you some day that I will never see Lily Dale again. 
As it is, I wish I never had seen her, — simply be- 
cause I am so dunned about it." In all of which I 
think that Johnny was manifestly wrong. When the 
humour was on him he was fond enough of talking 
about Lily Dale. Had he not taught her to do so, 
I doubt whether his sister would ever have mentioned 
Lily's name to him. "I did not mean to dun you, 
John," said Mary, meekly. 

But at last he went to Lady Julia's, and was no 
sooner there than he was ready to start for Allington. 
When Lady Julia spoke to him about Lily, he did not 
venture to snub her. Indeed, of all his friends, Lady 
Julia was the one with whom on this subject he al- 
lowed himself the most unrestricted confidence. He 
came over one day, just before dinner, and declared 
his intention of walking over to Allington immediately 
after breakfast on the following morning. "It's the 
last time, Lady Julia," he said. 
"So you say, Johnny." 

"And so I mean it I What's the good of a man 
frittering away his life? What's the good of wishing 
for what you can't get?" 

"Jacob was not in such a hurry when he wished 
for Rachel." 

"That was all very well for an old patriarch who 
had seven or eight hundred years to live." 

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^'My dear John, jou forget yonr ^BjOble. Jacob did 
not live half as long aa that" 

"He lived long enough, and slowly enough, to be 
able to wait fourteen yeacs; — and then he had some- 
thing to comfort him in the meantime. And after all, 
Lady Julia, it^s more than seven years since I first 
thought Lily was the prettiest girl I ever saw." 

"How old are you now?" 

"Twenty-seven, — and she's twenty-four." 

"You've time enough yet, if you'll only be 

"m be patient for to-morrow, Jjady Julia > but 
never again. Not that I mean to quarrel wiib ,ber. 
I'm not such a fool as to quarrel with a girl beoiua^ 
she can't like me. I know how it all is. If thaj; 
scoundrel had not come across my path just when he 
did, — in that very nick of time, all might have been 
right betwixt her and me. I couldn't have off^ed to 
marry her before, when I hadn't as much income as 
would have found her in bread-and-butter. And then, 
just as better times came to me, he stepped in! I 
wonder whether it will he expected of me that I should 
forgive him?" 

"As far as that goes, you haye no right to be 
angry with him." 

"But I am, — all the same." 

"And so was I, — but not for stepping in, as you 

"Ton and I are different, Lady Julia. I was 
angry with him for stepping in; but I couldn't show it 
Then he stepped out, and I did manage to show it 
And now I shouldn't wonder if he doe^'t step in again. 
After all, why should he ha^e sneh a powei? It was 

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Bimply 4he inkk at time iwhikih |^e it ^to him." That 
JoImtBames islumli be. able io find sonneconsolatioa in 
this coDflideniAion as devottdij to be hoped hj as aU. 

Thaternma ndthiag said 'about Lily Dale the next 
moradiigiat^ssakfa^ Lady JaUa obsopved that Johu 
<WB8 dsosBiad a little more neatly than mmal; — though 
tbe change iwas ^viot suoh a» to haye called for her 
special ;obaeitir«taoii, had she not known the business on 
whiioh he wm intent 

^^ Yon hove nothing to send to the Dales?" he said, 
as he got mp &om the table. 

"Nothing but. my love, Johnny." 
"No worsted or iembroidety woisk, — or a pot of 
special jam ier the squire?" 

"No, sir, nothflo^; though I sho41d like to make 
you carry a pair of panniecfi, if I could." 

"They would beo^ne me well,'' said Johnny, "for 
I am going on an aaa^s esrand." Then, without wait- 
ing for the word of affection which was on the old wo- 
man^s lips, he got himself out of the room, and 
started on kos journey. 

The walk was only three miles and the weather 
was dry and irosty, and he had came to the turn lead- 
ing up to the ehuroh «,nd the sqtiire^s house almost be- 
fore he remembered that he was near AUington. Here 
be paused for a moment to think. If he continued his 
way down by the "Bed Lion" and through Allington 
Street, he must knock at Ujr8.Dale*s door, and ask for 
admission by means of tibe sfirvant, — as would be 
done by any ordinaiy vicdtor. JBut he could make his 
W&7 on to ike lawn by going up beyond the wall of 
the churdhyovd and through the squire's garden. He 
knew the path well, — yery well; and he thought that 

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he might take so rnueh liberty as tlutt, both wiih the 
sqnire and with Mrs. Dale, although his visits to 
Allington were not so frequent now as they used to be 
in the days of his boyhood. He did not wish to be 
admitted by the servant, and therefore he went through 
the gardens. Luckily he did not see the squire , who 
would have detained him, and he escaped from Hop- 
kins, the old gardener, with little more than a word. 
^Tm going down to see the ladies, Hopkins; I suppose 
I shall £nd them?^* And then, while Hopkins was 
arranging his spade so that he might lean upon it for 
a little chat, Johnny was gone and had made his way 
into the other garden. He had thought it possible that 
he might meet Lily out among the walks by herself, 
and such a meeting as this would have suited him 
better than any other. And as he crossed the little 
bridge which separated the gardens he thought of more 
than one such meeting, — of one especial occasion on 
which he had first ventured to tell her in plain words 
that he loved her. But before that day Crosbie had 
come there, and at the moment in which he was speak- 
ing of his love she regarded Crosbie as an angel of 
light upon the earth. What hope could there have 
been for him then? What use was there in his telling 
such a tale of love at that time? When he told it, he 
knew that Crosbie had been before him. He) knew 
that Crosbie was at that moment the angel of light 
But as he had never before been able to speak of his 
love, so was he then unable not to speak of it. He 
had spoken, and of course had been simply rebuked. 
Since that day Crosbie had ceased to be an angel of 
light, and he, John Eames, had spoken often. But he had 
spoken in vain, and now he would speak once again. 

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He went through the garden and oyer the lawn 
belonging to the Small Honse and saw no one. He 
forgot, I think, that ladies do not come ont to pick 
roses when the ground is frozen, and that croquet is 
not often in progress with the hoar-frost on the grass. 
So he walked np to the little terrace before the draw- 
ing-room, and looking in saw Mrs. Dale, and Lily, and 
Grace at their morning work. Lily was drawing and 
Mrs. Dale was writing, and Grace had her needle in 
her hand. As it happened, no one at first perceived 
him, and he had time to feel that after all he would 
have mlmaged better if he had been announced in the 
usual way. As, however, it was now necessary that he 
should annoxmce himself, he knocked at the window, 
and they all immediately looked up and saw him. 
"It's my cousin John,*' said Grace. "Oh, Johnny, how 
are you at last?'' said Mrs. Dale. But it was Lily 
who, without speaking, opened the window for him, 
who was the first to give him her hand, and who led 
him through into the room. 

"It's a great shame my coming in this way," said 
John, "and letting all the cold air in upon you." 

"We shall survive it," said Mrs. Dale. "I sup- 
pose you have just come down from my brother-in- 

"No; I have not seen the squire as yet I will do 
so before I go back, of course. But it seemed such 
a commonplace sort of thing to go round by the 

"We are very glad to see you, by whatever way 
you come; — are we not, mamma?" said Lily. 

"I'm not so sure of that We were only saying 
yesterday that as you bad been in the country a fort- 

gitized by Google 

74 THC LAST OHBO]»€lt£} Of" BAESXH!. 

nigiht 6icKtli€EPt»c(Biimg to ns, we did not liliink we >«iould 
be at home mhen yaudidtcoine.^' 

"Bnt J .iMwne xam^t lyou, you *8ee," aaid Johnny. 

Apdso ihey >weiit.ion, lehatting <of old itimfls^nd <of 
muttial Ineoids very oomfoitaMy fiHr^&U ai^honr. -And 
these was some eedicms convevsatiQii aiboot ^Gittce^ 
father and shis jaiBKadrs, randJoiin tdeckred Ids topinioa 
that Mr. /OmT^ey on^t to go to his uncle, /Thomas 
Toogood, not at 4^11 jhaiiowuig at ihat time Mr.Ojiawloy 
himself had •come to ithe jwyae opinion. And. John 
gave them >an lekhoraiie description of Sir Baffle tBulfle, 
standing u^ >with his haek 'to the fire with ilm hat on 
his heaid, and ^spealoing with a loud harsh voice, to 
show them the way in which he deciajred that that 
gentleman received his inferiors; and then bowing and 
scraping and nibbing his hands together and simpering 
with would-be soflaiess, — declaring that after that 
fashion Sir Eaffle received his superiors. And they 
were very merry, — so that no one would have thought 
that Johnny was a despondent lover, now bent on 
throwing the dice for his laat stake; or that Lily was 
aware that she was in the pv^ence of one lover, and 
that she was like to &11 to ihe gmund between two 
stools, — having two loivers, neithjer of whom oould 
serve her turn. 

*'How can you iconsesi; to serve him if he^s such a 
man as that?** said LHy, speaking of Sir £affle. 

"I do not serve hiaai- I serve the Queen, — or 
rather the public. I don*t take his wages, and he does 
not play his tricks with me. He knows that jbe can*t 
He has tided it, and has failed. And he only keeps 
me where I am because IVe had some money left me. 
He thinks it fine to have a private neeretaiy wil^ 4i 

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foTtima I ki^ow that he tells people all m^mier of 
lies «ibout it, making it out to be five tioobes as much 
as it ,18. Dear old Huffle Snuffle. He is such au ass; 
4ind yet he^s had wit enough to get to the top of the 
tree, and to keep himself there. He began the world 
without a penny. Now he has got a handle to his 
name, and he'll live in clover all his life. It's very 
odd, isn't it, Mrs. Pale?" 

"I suppose he does his work?" 
"When men get so high as that, there's no know- 
ing whether they work or whether they don't. There 
isn't much for them to do, as far as I can see. They 
have to look beautiful, and frighten the young ones." 
"And do^s .Sir Baffle look beautiful?" X-ily a^sked. 
"After a fashion, he does. There is something im- 
posing .ftbotut such a maa till you're used to it, and 
can see through it. Of course it's all padding. There 
are men who woijt, no doubt. But among the big- 
wigs, and bishops and cabinet ministers, I fancy that 
the looking beautii^ul is the chief part of it. Dear me, 
you don't rmea^ to say it's luncheon time?" 

But it was jluncheou time, and not only had he not 
as yet said a word of ^U that which he had come to 
say, but had npt as yet made any move towards 
gett^ it said. iOJow was he to arrange that Lily 
should be left alone wi^ him? Lady Julia had said 
that she should not expect him back till dinner-time, 
and he had answered her lackadaisically, "I don't sup- 
" pose I sJball be there above ten minutes. Ten minutes 
will say all I've got to si^, ^and do all I've got to do. 
And then I supposje I shall go and cut names about 
upon bridges, — eh. Lady Julia?" Lady Julia under- 
itood his words; for once, upon a former occasicm, she 

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had found liim cutting Lily's name on the rail of a 
wooden bridge in her brother's grounds. But he had 
now been a couple of hours at the Small House, and 
had not said a word of that which he had come to 

"Are you going to walk out with us after lunch?" 
said Lily. 

"He will have had walking enough," said Mrs. 

"We'll convoy him back part of the way," said 

"I'm not going yet," said Johnny, "unless you turn 
me out." 

"But we must have our walk before it is dark," 
said Lily. 

"Tou might go up with him to your uncle," said 
Mrs. Dale. "Indeed, I promised to go up myself, and 
so did you, Grace, to see the microscope. I heard Mr. 
Dale give orders that one of those long-legged reptiles 
should be caught on purpose for your inspection." 

Mrs. Dale's little scheme for bringing the two to- 
gether was very transparent, but it was not the less 
wise on that account Schemes will often be success- 
ful, let them be ever so transparent Little intrigues 
become necessary, not to conquer unwilling people, but 
people who are willing enough, who, nevertheless, can- 
not give way except under the machinations of an 

"I don't think I'll mind looking at the long-legged 
creature to-day." said Johnny. 

"I must go, of course," said Grace. 

Lily said nothing at the moment, either about the 
long-legged creature or the walk. That which must 

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be, must be. She knew well why John Eames had 
come there. She knew that the visits to his mother 
and to Lady Julia weald never have been made, bnt 
that he might have this interview. And he had a 
right to demand, at any rate, as much as that. That 
which must be, must be. And therefore when both Mrs. 
Dale and Grace stoutly maintained their purpose of 
going up to the squire, Lily neither attempted to per- 
suade John to accompany them, nor said that she 
would do so herself. 

*'I will convoy you home myself," she said, "and 
Grace, when she has done with the beetle, shall come 
and meet me. Won't you, Grace?" 


"We are not helpless young ladies in these parts, 
nor yet timorous," continued Lily. "We can walk 
about without being afraid of ghosts, robbers, wild 
bulls, young men, or gipsies. Come the field path, 
Grace. I will go aa far as the big oak with him, and 
then I shall turn back, and I shall come in by the 
stile opposite the church gate, and through the garden. 
So you can't miss me." 

"I daresay he'll come back with you," said Grace. 

"No, he won't He will do nothing of the kind. 
He'll have to go on and open Lady Julia's bottle of 
port wine for his own drinking." 

All this was very good on Lily's part, and very 
good also on the part of Mrs. Dale ; and John was of 
course very much obliged to them. But there was a 
lack of romance in it all, which did not seem to him 
to argue well as to his success. He did not think 
much about it, but he felt that Lily would not have 
been so ready to arrange their walk had she intended 

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to yield' to bis entreaty. No doBbt in these latter days 
plain good sense had become the preyailing mark of 
her character, — perhaps, as Johnny thought, a little 
too strongly prevailing; but even with* ail her plain 
good sense and determination to dispense irith the ab- 
surdities of romance in the affairs of her life, she would 
not have proposed herself as his companion for a walk 
across the fields merely that she might have an op- 
portunity of accepting his hand. He did not say iJl 
this to himself, but he instinctively felt that it was so. 
And he felt also that it should have been his duty to 
arrange the walk, or the proper opportunity far the 
scene that was to come. She had done it instead, — 
she and her mother between them, thereby forcing upon 
him a painful conviction that he himself had not been 
equal to the occasion. "I always make a mull of it,*' 
he said to himself, when the girls went up to get their 
hats. ' 

They went down together through the garden, and 
parted where the paths led away, one to the great 
house and the other towards the church. "I'll certainly 
come and call upon the squire before I go back to 
London," said Johnny. 

"We'll tell him so," said Mrs. Dale. "He would 
be sure to hear that you had been with us, even if we 
said nothing about it" 

"Of course he would," said Lily; "Hopkins has 
seen him." Then they separated, and Lily and John 
Eames were together. 

Hardly a word was said, perhaps not a word, till 
they had crossed the road and got into the .field 
opposite to the church. And in this first field there 
was more than one path, and the children of the 

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village were often there, and it had about it. something 
of ar p9blif& nature. John Eames felt that it was by 
no means^ a fitting field to saj that which' he had to 
say. In crossing it,, therefore, he merely remai^ted 
that the day was very fine, for walking. Then he 
added one special word, ^^And it is so good of yon, 
Lily, to come with me." 

"I am very glad to come with you. I would do 
more than that, J<^, to show how glad I am tb see 
you." Then they had come to the seeofad little gate, 
and beyond that the fields were really fields, and theret 
were stiles instead of wic^t-^ates, and' the business of 
the day must be begim. 

"Lily, whenever I come here yousay you are glad 
to see me?" 

"And so I am, — very glad. Only you would 
take it as meaning what it does not m«an^ I would tell 
you, that of all my friends living airay firom the reach 
of my daily life, you are the one /wiiose coming is ever 
the most pleasant to me." 

"Oh, Lilyl" 

"It was, I think, only yesterday that I was telling 
Grace that you are m<»'e like a l^other to me than 
any one else. I wish it might be so. I wish we might 
swear to be brother and sister. I'd do more fhr you 
then than walk across the fields with you to Guest- 
wick Cottage. Your prosperity would then be the 
thing in the world for which I should be most anxious. 
And if you should marry — ^" 

"It can never be like that between us," said 

^'Oan it not? I think it can. Perhaps not this 
year, or next year; perhaps not in the next five years. 

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But I make myself happy with thinking that it may 
be so some day. I shall wait for it patiendy, v^ry 
patiently, even though you should rebuff me again and 
again, — as you have done now." 

"I have not rebuffed you." 

"Not maliciously, or injuriously, or offensively. I 
will be very patient, and take little rebuffs without com- 
plaining. This is the worst stile of all. When Grace 
and I are here together we can never manage it with- 
out tearing ourselves all to pieces. It is much nicer to 
have you to help me." 

"Let me help you always," he said, keeping h^ 
hands in his after he had aided her to jump from the 
stile to the ground. 

"Yes, as my brother." 

"That is nonsense, Lily." 

"Is it nonsense? Nonsense is a hard word." 

"It is nonsense as coming from you to me. Lily, 
I sometimes think that I am persecuting you, writing 
to you, coming after you, as I am doing now, — tell- 
ing the same whining story, — asking, asking, and 
asking for that which you say you will never give me. 
And then I feel ashamed of myself, and swear that I 
will do it no more." 

"Do not be ashamed of yourself; but yet do it no 

"And then," he continued, without minding her 
words, "at other times I feel that it must be my own 
fault; that if I only persevered with sufficient energy 
I must be successful. At such times I swear that I 
will never give it up." 

"Oh, John, if you could only know how little 
worthy of such pursuit it is." 

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"Leave me to judge of that, dear. When a man 
has taken a month, or perhaps only a week, or per- 
haps not more than half an hour, to make up his mind, 
it may he very well to tell him that he doesn't know 
what he is ahout. I've heen in the office now for 
over seven years, and the first day I went I put an 
oath into a hook that I would come hack and get you 
for my wife when I had got enough to live upon." 

"Did you, John?" 

"Yes. I can show it you. I used to come and 
hover ahout the place in the old days, hefore I went 
to London, when I was such a fool that I couldn't 
speak to you if I met you. I am speaking of a time 
long hefore, — hefore that man came down here." 

"Do not speak of him, Johnny." 

"I must speak of him. A man isn't to hold his 
tongue when everything he has in the world is at stake. 
I suppose he loved you after a tashion, once," 

"Pray, pray do not speak ill of him." 

"I am not going to abuse him. You can judge of 
him by his deeds. I cannot say anything worse of him 
than what they say. I suppose he loved you; but he 
certainly did not love you as I have done. I have at 
any rate been true to you. Yes, Lily, I have been 
true to you. I am true to you. He did not know 
what he was about I do. I am justified in saying 
that I do. I want you to be my wife. It is no use 
your talking about it as though I only half wanted it." 

"I did not say that." 

"Is not a man to have any reward? Of course if 
you had married him there would have been an end of 
it He had come in between me and my happiness, 
and I must have borne it, as other men bear such sor* 

Tk$ Last ChrmkiU of Bar$«t. II, 6 

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rows. But you have not married Mm; and, of course, 
I cannot but feel that I may yet have a chance. Lily, 
answer me this. Do you believe that I love you?" 
But she did not answer him. "You can at any rate 
tell me that. Do you think that I am in earnest?" 

"Yes, I think you are in earnest." 

"And do you believe that I love you with all my 
heart and all my strength and all my soul?" 

"Oh, John!" 

"But do you?" 

"I think you love me." 

"Think! what am I to say or to do to make you 
understand that my only idea of happiness is the idea 
that sooner or later I may get you to be my wife? 
Lily, will you say that it shall be so? Speak, Lily. 
There is no one that will not be glad. Your uncle 
will consent, — has consented. Your mother wishes 
it. Bell wishes it My mother wishes it. Lady Julia 
wishes it You would be doing what everybody about 
you wants you to do. And why should you not do it? 
It isn't that you dislike me. You wouldn't talk about 
being my sister, if you had not some sort of regard 
for me." 

"I have a regard for you." 

"Then why will yon not be my wife? Oh, Lify, 
say the word now, here, at once. Say the wwd, and 
you'll make me the happiest fellow in all England." As 
he spoke he took her by both arms, and held her fast 
She did not struggle to get away from him, but stood 
quite still, looking into his face, while the first sparkle 
of a salt tear formed itself in each eye. "Lily, one 
little word will do it, — half a word, a nod, a smile. 
Just touch my arm with your hand and I will take it 

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for a yeay I tlnnk that i^ almost tried to touch him; 
that the word was in her throat, and that she abnost 
strove to speak it. Bat there was no syllable spoken, 
and her fingers did not loose themselves to fall upon 
his sleeve. "Lily, Lily, what can I say to you?" 

"I wish I could," she whispered; — but the 
whisp^ was so hoarse that he hardly recognized the 

"And why can you not? What is there to hinder 
you? There is nothing to hinder you, Lily." 

"Tes, John; there is that which must Idnder me." 

"And what is it?" 

"I wfll tell you. You are so good and so true, 
and so excellent, — such a dear, dear, dear firiend, 
that I will tell you everytliing, so that you may read 
my heart I wiU tell you as I tell mamma, — you 
and her and no one else; — for you are the choice 
fiiend of my heart I cannot be your wife because of 
the love I bear for anotiier man." 

"And that man is he^ — he who came here?" 

"Of course it is he. I think, Johnny, you and I 
are alike in this, that when we have loved we cannot 
bring ourselves to change; Yon will not change, 
though it would be so much better you should do so." 

"No; I will necver dnage;" 

"Nor can L When I sleep I dream of him. When 
I am alone I cannot banisk him from my thoughts. I 
cannot define what it is to love him. I want nothing 
from him, -^ nothing, nothing. But I move about 
through my little world thinking of him, and I diaU 
do 80 to the end. I used to feel proud of my love, 
though it made me so wvetched that I thought it would 
kill me. I am not proud oi it any longer. It is a 

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foolish poor-spirited weakness, — as thougli my beart 
had been only half formed in the making. Do you 
be stronger, John. A man should be stronger than a 

"I have none of that sort of strength." 

"Nor have I. What can we do but pity each 
other, and swear that we will be friends, — dear 
friends. There is the oak-tree and I have got to tnm 
back. We have said everything that we can say, — 
unless you will tell me that you will be my brother." 

"No; I will not tell you that." 

"Good-by, then, Johnny." 

He paused, holding her by the hand and thinking 
of another question which he longed to put to her, — 
considering whether he would ask her that question or 
not. He hardly knew whether he were entitled to ask 
it; — whether or no the asking of it would be un- 
generous. She had said that she would tell him every- 
thing — as she had told everything to her mother. 
"Of course," he said, "I have no right to expect to 
know anything of your fature intentions?" 

"You may know them all, — as far as I know 
them myself. I have said that you should read my 

"If this man, whose name I cannot bear to men- 
tion, should come again " 

"If he were to come again he would come in vain, 
John." She did not say that he had come again. 
She could tell her own secret, but not that of another 

**Tou would not marry him, now that he is free?" 

She stood and thought a while before she answered 
him. "No, I should not many him now. I think 

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not^' Then she paused again. '^Nay, I am snre I 
would not After what has passed I could not trast 
myself to do it There is my hand on it I will 

"No, Lily, I do not want that*' 

"But I insist I will not many Mr. Croshie. 
But you must not misunderstand me, John. There; — 
all that is over for me now. All those dreanus ahout 
love, and marriage, and of a house of my own, and 
children, — and a cross hushand, and a wedding-ring 
growing always tighter as I grow fatter and older. I 
have dreamed of such things as other girls do, — 
more perhaps than other girls, more than I should 
have done. And now I accept the thing as finished. 
You wrote something in your book, you dear John, — 
something that could not be made to come true. Dear 
John, I wish for your sake it was otherwise. I will 
go home and I will write in my hook, this very day, 
Lilian Dale, Old Maid. If ever I make that false, do 
you come and ask me for the page." 

"Let it remain there till I am allowed to tear 
it out" 

"I will write it, and it shall never he torn out. 
You I cannot marry. Him I will not marry. You 
may believe me, Johnny, when I say there can never 
be a third." 

"And is that to be the end of it?" 

"Yes; — that is to be the end of it Not the end 
of our firiendship. Old maids have friends." 

"It shall not be the end of it There shall be no 
end of it with me." 

"But, John " 

"Do not suppose that I will trouble you again, — 

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at any rate not foi" a while. la five years* time per* 
haps, " 

"Now, Johnny, yon are laughing at me. And of 
conrse it is the best way. If there is not Grace, and 
she has caught me before I have turned hatk. Good- 
by, dear, dear John. God bless you. I think yon 
the finest fellow there is in the world. I do, and so 
does maxmna. Bemember always that there is a temple 
at Allington in which your worship is never forgotten." 
Then she pressed his hand and turned away fin^m him 
to m«et Grace Crawley. John did not stop to speak 
a word to bis cousin, but pursued his way alone. 

"That cousin of yours," said Lily, "is simply the 
dearest, warmest-hearted, finest creature that ever was 
seen in the shape of a man." 

"Have you told him that you think him so?" said 

"Indeed, I have," said Lily. 

"But have you told this finest, warmed, dearest 
creature that he shall be rewarded with the prize he 

"No, Grace. I have told him nothing of the kind. 
I think he understands it all now. If he does not, it 
is not for the want of my telling him. I don^t suppose 
any lady was ever more open-spoken to a gentleman 
than I have been to him." 

"And why have you sent him away disappointed? 
You know you love him." 

"You see, my dear," said Lily, "you allow your- 
self, for the sake of your argument, to use a word in 
a double sense, and you attempt to confound me by 
doing so. But I am a great deal too clever for you, 
and have thought too much about it, to be taken in in 

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that way. I certamly love yotir cousin John; and so 
I do love Mr. Boyce, the vicar." 

'^You love Johnny mnch better than you do Mr. 

"True; very mnch better; but it is the same sort 
of love. However, it is a great deal too deep for you 
to understand. You're too young, and I shan't try to 
explain it But the long and the short of it is, — I 
am not going to many your cousin." 

"I wish you were," said Grace, "with all my 

John Eames as he returned to the cottage was by 
no means able to fall back upon those resolutions as 
to his foture life, which he had formed for himself 
and communicated to his friend Dalrymple, and which 
he had intended to bring at once into force in the 
event of his being again rejected by Lily Dale. "I 
will cleanse my mind of it altogether," he had said, 
"and though I may not forget her, I will live as though 
she were forgotten. If she declines my proposal again, 
I will accept her word as final. I will not go about 
the world any longer as a stricken deer, — to be 
pitied or else bullied by the rest of the herd." On 
his way down to Guestwick he had sworn twenty 
times that it should be so. He would make one more 
effort, and then he would give it up. But now, after 
his interview with Lily, he was as little disposed to 
give it up as ever. 

He sat upon a gate in a paddock through which 
there was a back entrance into Lady Julia's garden, 
and there swore a thousand oaths that he would never 
give her up. He was, at any rate, sure that she 
would never become the wife of any one else. He 

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was eqnallj Btue that lie would never become the 
husband of any other wife. He conld trust her. Tes; 
he was sure of that But could he trust himself? 
Communing with himself, he told himself that after all 
he was but a poor creature. Circumstances had been 
very good to him, but he had done nothing for him- 
self He was vain, and foolish, and unsteady. So he 
told himself while sitting upon the gate. But he had, 
at any rate, been constant to Lily, and constant he 
would remain. 

He would never more mention her name to any 
one, — unless it were to Lady Julia to-night. To 
Dalrymple he would not open his mouth about her, 
but woiild plainly ask his friend to be silent on that 
subject if her name should be mentioned by him. But 
morning and evening he would pray for her, and in 
his prayers he would always think of her as his wife. 
He would never speak to another girl without re- 
membering that he was bound to Lily. He would go 
nowhere into society without recalling to mind the 
fact that he was bound by the chains of a solemn 
engagement. If he knew himself he would be con- 
stant to Lily. 

And then he considered in what manner it would 
be best and most becoming that he should still pro- 
secute his endeavour and repeat his offer. He thought 
that he would write to her every year, on the same 
day of the year, year after year, it might be for the 
next twenty years. And his letters should be very 
simple. Sitting there on the gate he planned the 
wording of his letters; — of his first letter, and of his 
second, and of his third. They should be very like 
to each other, — should hardly be more than a repeti- 

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tion of the same words. "If now you are ready for 
me, then, LOy, am I, as ever, still ready for you." 
And then "if now" again, and again "if now; — and 
still if now." When his hair should be grey, and the 
wrinkles on his cheeks, — ay, though they should be 
on hers, he would still continue to tell her from year 
to year that he was ready to take her. Surely some 
day that "if now" would prevail. And should it never 
prevail, the merit of his constancy should be its own 

Such letters as those she would surely keep. Then 
he looked forward, down into the valley of coming 
years, and fancied her as she might sit reading them 
in the twilight of some long evening, — letters which 
had been written all in vain. He thought that he 
could look forward with some satisfaction towards the 
close of his own career, in having been the hero of 
such a love-story. At any rate, if such a story were 
to be his story, the melancholy attached to it should 
arise from no fault of his own. He would still press her to 
be his wife. And then, as he remembered that he was only 
twenty-seven and that she was twenty-four, he began 
to marvel at the feeling of grey old age which had 
come upon him, and tried to make himself believe that 
he would have her yet before the bloom was off her cheek. 

He went into the cottage and made his way at once 
into the room in which Lady Julia was sitting. She 
did not speak at first, but looked anxiously into his 
face. And he did not speak, but turned to a table 
near the window and took up a book, — though the 
room was too dark for him to see to read the words. 

"John," at last said Lady Julia. 

"WeU, my lady?" 

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"Have you nothing to tell me, John?" 
"Nothing on earth, — except the same old story 
which has now become a matter of course." 

"But, John, will you not tell me what she has said?" 
"Lady Julia, she has said no; simply no. It is a 
very easy word to say, and she has said it so often 
that it seems to come from her quite naturally." Then 
he got a candle and sat down over the fire with a 
volume of a novel. It was not yet past five, and 
Lady Julia did not go upstairs to dress till six, and 
therefore there was an hour during which they were 
togedier. John had at first been rather grand to his 
old friend, and very uncommunicative. But before 
the dressing bell had rung he had been coaxed into a 
confidential strain and had told everything. "I sup- 
pose it is wrong and selfish," he said. "I suppose I 
am a dog in a manger. But I do own that there is a 
consolation to me in Ihe assurance that she will never 
be the wife of ihat scoundreL" 

"I eould never forgive her if she were to marry 
him now," said Lady Julia. 

"I could never forgive him. But she has said that 
she will not, and I know that she will not forswear 
ha*self. I shall go on with it, Lady Julia. I have 
made up my mind to that. I suppose it will never 
come to anything, but I shall stick to it. I can live 
an old bachelor as well as another man. At any rate 
I shall stick to it" Then the good silly old woman 
comforted him and applauded him as though he were 
a hero among men, and did reward him, as Lily had 
predicted, by one of those now rare bottles of super- 
excellent port which had come to her from her brother*8 

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John Eames stayed oiM; his time at the cottage, and 
went over more than once agaan to Allington, and 
called on the squire, on one occasion dining with him 
and meeting the three ladies from the Small House; 
and he walked with the girls, comporting himself like 
any ordinary man. But he was not again alone with 
Lily Dale, nor did he learn wheth^ she had in truth 
written those two words in her hook. But the reader 
may know that she did write them there on the even- 
ing of the day on which the promise was made. ^'Lilian 
Dale, — Old Maid." 

And when John's holiday was over, he returned to 
his duties at the elhow of Sir Baffle Buflle. 


GraoQ Crawley returns Home. 

About this time Grace Crawley received two letters, 
the first of them reaching her while John Eames was 
still at the cottage and the other immediately after his 
return to London. They hoth help to tell our story, 
and our reader shall, therefore, read them if he so 
please, — or, rather, he shall read the first and as 
much of the second as is necessary for him. Grace's 
answer to the first letter he shaU see also. Her answer 
to the second will he told in a very few words. The 
first was from Major Grantly, and the task of answer- 
ing that was by no means easy to Grace. 

" Cosby Lodge , — February, 186—. 

"Dbasbst Gbace, 
"I TOZiD you when I parted from you, that I should 
write to you, and I think it best to do so at onoe, in 

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order that jou may faHj tuiderstand me. Spoken 
words are soon forgotten," — "I shall never forget his 
words," Grace said to herself as she read this; — "and 
are not always as plain as thej might be. Dear Grace, 
I suppose I ought not to say so, but I faucied when I 
parted from yon at Allington, that I had succeeded in 
making myself dear to you. I believe you to be so 
true in spirit, that you were unable to conceal from 
me the fact that you love me. I shall believe that this 
is so, till I am deliberately and solemnly assured by 
yourself that it is not so; — and I conjure you to 
think what is due both to yourself and to myself, be- 
fore you allow yourself to think of making such an 
assurance unless it be strictly true. 

"I have already told my own friends that I have 
asked you to be my wife. I tell you this, in order 
that you may know how little effect your answer to 
me has had towards inducing me to give you up. What 
you said about your father and your family has no 
weight with me, and ought ultimately to have none 
with you. This business of your father^s is a great 
misfortune, — so great that, probably, had we not 
known each other before it happened, it might have 
prevented our becoming intimate when we chanced to 
meet But we had met before it happened, and before 
it happened I had determined to ask you to be my 
wife. What should I have to think of myself if I al- 
lowed my heart to be altered by such a cause as that? 

"I have only frirther to say that I love you better 
than any one in the world, and that it is my best hope 
that you will be my wife. I will not press you till 
this affair of your frither^s has been settled; but when 
that IB ov0r I shall look for my reward without re* 

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WUlCB obawley sbturns homb. 93 

ference to its result Not that I doubt the result if 
there be anything like justice in England; but that 
your debt to me, if you owe me any debt, will be al* 
together irrespectiye of that If , as I suppose, you 
will remain at Allington for some time longer, I shall 
not see you till after the trial is over. As soon as that 
is done, I will come to you wherever you are. In the 
meantime I shall look for an answer to this; and if it 
be true that you love me, dear, dear Grrace, pray have 
the courage to tell me so. 

^'Host affectionately your own, 

"Henry Grantly." 

When the letter was given to Grace across the 
breakfast-table, both Mrs. Dale and Lily suspected that 
it came from Major Grantly, but not a word was spoken 
about it When Grace with hesitating hand broke the 
envelope, neither of her friends looked at her. Lily 
had a letter of her own, and Mrs. Dale opened the 
newspapa*. But still it was impossible not to perceive 
that her face became red with blushes, and then they 
knew that the letter must be from Major Grantly. Grace 
herself could not read it, though her eye ran down 
over the two pages catching a word here and a word 
there. She had looked at the name at once, and had 
seen the manner of his signature. "Most affectionately 
your own I" What was she to say to him? Twice, 
thricey as she sat at the breakfast-table she turned the 
page of the letter, and at each turning she read the 
signature. And she read the beginning, "Dearest 
Grace," More than that she did not really read till 
she had got the letter away yn£li her into the sedusioi^ 
of her own room. 

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Not a word was said about the letter at breakfast 
Poor Orace went on eating or pretending to eat^ but 
could not bring herself to utter a word. Mrs. Dale 
and Lily spoke of various matters, which were quite 
indiff^ent to them; but even with them the conversa- 
tion was so difficult that Grace felt it to be forced, 
and was conscious that they were thinking about her 
and h^ lover. As soon as she could make an excuse 
she left the room, and hurrying upstairs took the ktter 
from her pocket and read it in earnest 

"That was from Major Grantlj, mamma,'* said 

"I daresay it was, my dear." 

"And wlukt had we bettw do; or what had we 
better say?" 

"Noting, — I should say. Let him fight his own 
battle. If we interfere, we may probably only make 
her more stubborn in clinging to her old idea." 

"I think she will cling to it" 

"For a time she will, I daresay. And it will be 
best that she should. He himself will respect her for 
it afterwards." Thus it was agreed between them that 
they should say nothii^ to Grace about the letter un- 
less Grace should first i^eak to them. 

Grace read her letter ovot and over again. It was 
the first love-letter she had ever had; — the first letter 
she had ever received from any man except her father 
and brother, — the first, almost, that had ever been 
written to her by any other than her own old special 
friends. The words of it were veiy strange to her ear. 
He had told her when he left her that he would write 
to her, and theref<Mre she had looked forward to the 
event which had now come; but she had thought that 

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it would be mnch more distant, — and she had tried 
to make herself beHeye that when it did come it would 
be very different fix>m this letter which she now pos- 
sessed. "He will tell me that he has altered his mind. 
He ought to do so. It is not proper that be should 
still think of me when we are in such disgrace." But 
now the letter had come, and she acknowledged the 
truth of his saying that writtwi words were clearer in 
their expression than those simply spoken. "Not that 
I could ever forget a syllable that he said." Yet, as 
she held the letter in her hand she felt that it was a 
possession. It was a thing at which she could look in 
coming years, when he and she might be far apart, — 
a thing at which she could look with pride in remem- 
bering that he had thought her worthy of it. 

Neither on that day nor on the next did she think 
of her answer, nor on the third or the fourth with any 
steady thinking. She knew that an answer would have 
to be written y and she felt that the sooner it was 
written the easier might be the writing; but she felt 
also that it should not be written too quickly. A week 
should first elapse, she thought, and therefore a week 
was allowed to elapse, and then the day for writing 
her answer came. She had spoken no word about it 
either to Mrs. Dale or to Lily. She had longed to do 
so, but had feared. Even though she should speak to 
Lily she could not be led by Lily's advice. Her letter, 
whatever it might be, must be her own letter. She 
would admit of no dictation. She must say her own 
say, let her say it ever so badly. As to the manner 
of saying it, Lily's aid would have been invaluable; 
but she feared that she could not secure that aid with- 
out compromising her own power of action, — her own 

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mdividnality; and therefore she said no word about the 
letter either to Lily or to Lily's mother. 

On a certain morning she fixed herself at her desk 
to write her letter. She had known that the task wonld 
be difficult, but she had little known how difficult it 
would be. On that day of her first attempt she did 
not get it written at all. How was she to begin? He 
had called her ^^ Dearest Grace;" and this mode of 
beginning seemed as easy as it was sweet ^^It is very 
easy for a gentleman," she said to herself, "because 
he may say just what he pleases." She wrote the 
words, "Dearest Heniy," on a scrap of paper, and 
immediately tore it into fragments as though she were 
ashamed of having written them. She knew that she 
would not dare to send away a letter beginning with 
such words. She would not even have dared to let 
such words in her own handwriting remain within the 
recesses of her own little desk. "Dear Major Grantly," 
she began at length. It seemed to her to be very 
ugly, but after much consideration she believed it to 
be correct. On the second day the letter was written 
as follows: — 

''Allington, Thanday. 

"My dear Major Grantly, — 
"I DO not know how I ought to answer your kind 
letter, but I must tell you that I am very much flattered 
by your great goodness to me. I cannot understand 
why you should think so much of me, but I suppose 
it is because you have felt for all our misfortunes. I 
will not say anything about M^at might have happened, 
if it had not been for papa's sorrow and disgrace; and 
as £Bur as I Qan help it, I will not think of it; but I am 

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sure that I ought not to think about loving any one, 
that is, in the waj you mean, while we are in such 
trouble at home. I should not dare to meet any of 
your gteat friends, knowing that I had brought nothing 
with me but disgrace. And I should feel that I was 
doing an injuiy to dewr Edith, which would be worse 
to me than anything. 

**Pray believe that I am quite in earnest about 
this. I know that a gentleman ought not to marry 
any girl to do himself and his family an injury by it; 
and I know that if I were to make such a marriage I 
should be unhappy ever afterwards, even though I 
loved the man ever so dearly, with all my heart" 
These last words she had underscored at first, but the 
doing so had been the unconscious expression of her 
own affection, and had been done with no desire on 
her part to convey that expression to him. But on 
reading the words she discovered their latent meaning, 
and wrote it all again. 

"Therefore I loiow that it will be best that I should 
wish you good-by, and I do so, thanking you again 
and again for your goodness to me. 
"Believe me to be, 

"Yours very sincerely, 

"Gbacb Crawley." 

The letter when it was written was hateftil to her; 
but she had tried her hand at it again and again, and 
had found that she could do nothing better. There was 
much in his letter that she had not attempted to an- 
swer. He had implored her to tell him whether or no 
she did in truth love him. Of course she loved him. 

TU Ltut Ckronide of Baraet, II, 1 

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d3 TUB LAST 0HI(0«i<3LB OF »AIU»BT. 

He knew that well enough. Why should she aBSwei 
any such question? There was a way of sAswering it 
indeed which might serve her turn, — or rather serve 
his, of which she was tiiinking more than of her own. 
She might say that she did not love him. It would be 
a lie, and he would know that it would fee a lie. But 
still it might serve the turn. She did not like the idea 
of writing such a lie as that, but nevertheless she con- 
sidered the matter. It would be very wicked; but 
still, if it would serve the turn, might it not be well to 
write it. But at last she reflected that, alter all, the 
doing of the thing was in her own hands. She could 
refuse to marry this man without burdening her con- 
scienpe with any lie about it. It only required that 
she should be firm. She abstained, therefore, from the 
falsehood, and left her lover^s question unanswered. 
So she put up her letter and directed it, and carried it 
herself to the village post-office. 

. On the day after this she got the second letter, 
and that she showed inumediately to Mrs. Dale. It was 
from her mother, and was written to teU her that her 
father was seriously ill. "He went up to London to 
see a lawyer about this weary worit of the trial," said 
Mrs. Crawley. "The fatigue was very great, and on 
the next day he was so weak that he could not leave 
his bed. Dr. Turner, who has been very kind, says 
that we need not frighten ourselves, but he thinks it 
must be some time before he can leave the house. He 
has a low fever on him, and wants nourishment. His 
mind has wandered once or twice, and he has asked 
for you, and I think it will be best, love, that you 
should come home. I know you will not miad it when 
I say that I think he would like to have you here. 

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Dr. Turner says that the illness is chiefly owing to his 
not having proper food.^ 

Of course she would go at once. "Dear Mrs. Dale," 
she said, "I must go home. Can y^u send me to the 
station?" Then. Mrs. Dale read the letter. Of course 
they would send her. Would she go on that day, or 
on the next? Might it not be better to write first, and 
say that she was going? But Grace would go at once. 
"I know it will be a comfort to mamma; and I know 
that he is worse than mamma says." Of course there 
was no more to be said, and she was despatched to the 
station. Before she went Mrs. Dale asked afl;^ her 
purse. "If there is any trouble about money, — for 
your journey, or anything, you will not scruple to 
come to me as to an old Mend." But Grace assured 
her that there was no trouble about money — for her 
journey. Then Lily took her aside and produced two 
clean new fire-pound notes. "Grace, dear, you won't 
be ill-natured. You know I have a little fortune of 
my own. You know I can give them without missing 
them." Grace threw herself into her friend's arms and 
wept, but would have none of her money. "Buy a 
present from me for your mother, — whom I love 
though I do not know her." "I will give her your 
love," Grace said, "but nothing else." And then she 

d byt^oogle 



Hook Court. 

Mb. Dobbs Bboughtoh and Mr. Musselboro were 
sitting together on a certain morning at their office in 
the City, discussing the affairs of their joint business. 
The City office was a very poor place indeed, in com- 
parison with the fine house which Mr. Dobbs occupied 
at the West End ; but then City offices are poor places, 
and there are certain City occupations which seem to 
enjoy the greater credit the poorer are the material 
circumstances by which they are surrounded. Turning 
out of a lane which turns out of Lombard Street, there 
is a desolate, forlorn-looking, dark alley, which is called 
Hook Court. The entrance to this alley is beneath the 
first-floor of one of the houses in the lane, and in 
passing under this covered way the visitor to the place 
finds himself in a small paved square court, at the two 
further comers of which there are two open doors; for 
In Hook Court there are only two houses. There is 
No. 1, Hook Court, and No. 2, Hook Court. The 
entire premises indicated by No. 1, are occupied by a 
firm of wine and spirit merchants, in connexion with 
whose trade one side and two angles of the court are 
always lumbered with crates, hampers, and wooden 
cases. And nearly in the middle of the court, though 
somewhat more to the wine-merchants^ side than to the 
other, there is always gaping open a trap-door, lead- 
ing down to vaults below; and over the trap there 
is a great board with a bright advertisement in very 
large letters: — 



2Si8» 6d, per doMm, 

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And this notice is so bright and so large, and the 
trap-door is so conspicuous in the court, that no 
visitor, even to No. 2, ever afterwards can quite divest 
his memory of those names, Burton and Bangles, 
Himalaya wines. It may therefore be acknowledged 
that Burton and Bangles have achieved their object in 
putting up the notice. The house No. 2, small as it 
seems to be, standing in the jamb of a corner, is 
divided among different occupiers, whose names are 
painted in small letters upon the very dirty posts of 
the doorway. Nothing can be more remarkable than 
the contrast between Burton and Bangles and these 
other City gentlemen in the method taken by them in 
declaring their presence to visitors in the court. The 
names of Dobbs Broughton and of A. Musselboro, — 
the Christian name of Mr. Musselboro was Augustus, 
— were on one of those dirty posts, not joined toge- 
ther by any visible "and," so as to declare boldly 
that they were partners; but in close vicinity, — show- 
ing at least that the two gentlemen would be found 
in apartments very near to each other. And on the 
first-floor of this house Dobbs Broughton and his friend 
did occupy three rooms, — or rather two rooms and 
a closet — between them. The larger and front room 
was tenanted by an old clerk, who sat within a rail 
in one comer of it. And there was a broad, short 
counter which jutted out from the wall into the middle 
of the room, intended for the use of such of the public 
as might come to transact miscellaneous business with 
Dobbs Broughton or Augustus Musselboro. But any 
one accustomed to the look of offices might have seen 
with half an eye that very little business was ever 
done on th^t counter. Behind ihiB large room was a 

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smaller one, belonging to Dobbs Brongfaton, in the 
fomisbing and arrangement of which some regard had 
been paid to eomfort. The room was carpeted, and 
there was a sofa in it, though a very old one, and 
two arm-chairs, and a mahogany office-table, and a 
cellaret, which was generally well supplied with wine 
which Dobbs Broughton did not get out of the vaults 
of his neighbours , Burton and Bangles. Behind this 
again, but with a separate entrance from the passage, 
was the closet; and this closet was specially devoted 
to the use of Mr. Musselboro. Closet as it was, — 
or cupboard as it might almost have been called, — 
It contained a table and two chairs; and it had a win- 
dow of its own, which opened out upon a blank wall 
which was distant from it not above four feet. As the 
house to which this wall belonged was four stories 
high, it would sometimes happen that Mr. Musselboro's 
cupboard was rather dark. But this mattered the less 
as in these days Mr. Musselboro seldom used it. Mr. 
Musselboro, who was very constant at his place of 
business, — much more constant than his friend, Dobbs 
Broughton, — was generally to be found in his friend's 
room. Only on some special occasions, on which it 
was thought expedient that the commercial world, 
should be made to understand that Mr. Augustus 
Musselboro had an individual existence of his own, 
did that gentleman really seat himself in the dark closet. 
Mr. Dobbs Broughton, had he been asked what was his 
trade, would have said that he was a stockbroker; 
and he would have answared truly, for he was a stock- 
broker. A man may be a stockbrok^ though he 
never sells any stock; as he maybe a barrister though 
he has no praetice at the bar. I do not say that Mr. 

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Broughton never sold any stock; but the buTing and 
selling of stock for other people was certainly not his 
chief ' bndnesB. And had Mr. Musselboro been asked 
what was his trade, he would have probably given an 
evasive answer. At any rate in the City, and among 
people who understood City matters, he would not 
have said that he was a stockbroker. Both Mr. Brough- 
ton and Mr. Musselboro bought and sold a good deal, 
but it was chiefly on account. The shares which were 
bought and sold very generally did not pass from 
hand to hand; but the diff^enee in the price of the 
shares did do so. And then they had smother little 
business between them. They lent money on interest 
And in this business there was a third partner, whose 
name did not appear on the dirty door-post. That 
third partner was Mrs. Van Siever, the mother of 
Clara Van Siever whom Mr. Conway Dalrymple intended 
to portray as Jael driving a nail into Sisera's head. 

On a certain morning Mr. Broughton and Mr. 
Musselhoro were sitting together in the office which 
has been described. They were in Mr. Broughton's 
room, and occupied each an arm-chair on the different 
sides of the flre. Mr. Musselboro was sitting close to 
the table, on which a ledger was open before him, and 
he had a pen and ink before him, as though he had 
been at work. Dobbs Broughton had a small betting- 
book in his hand, and was seated with his feet up 
against the side of the fireplace. Both men wore their 
hats, and the aspect of die room was not the aspect 
of a place of business. They had been silent for some 
minutes when Broughton took his cigar-case out of his 
pocket, and nibbled off die end of a cigar, preparatory 
to lighting it 

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^^You liad better not smoke here this morning, 
Dobbs," said Mosselboro. 

"Why shouldn't I smoke in my own room?" 

"Because she'll be here just now." 

"What do I care? If you think I'm going to be 
afraid of Mother Van, you're mistaken. Let come 
what may, I'm not going to live under her thumb.'* 
So he lighted his cigar. 

"All right," said Musselboro, and he took up his 
pen and went to work at hi« book. 

"What is she coming here for this morning?" 
asked Broughton. 

"To look after her money. What should she come 

"She gets her interest. I don't suppose there's 
better paid money in the City." 

"She hasn't got what was coming to her at Christ- 
mas yet." 

"And this is February. What would she have? 
She had better put her dirty money into the three per 
cents., if she is frightened at having to wait a week or 

"Can she have it to-day?" 

"What, the whole of it? Of course she can't. 
You know that as well as I do. She can have four 
hundred pounds, if she wants it. But seeing all she 
gets out o£ the concern, she has no right to press for 
it in that way. She is the — old usurer I ever came 
across in my life." 

"Of course she^likes her money." 

"Likes her money! By George she does; her own 
and anybody else's that she can get hold of. For a 
downright leech, recommend me always to a woman. 

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When a woman does go in for it, she is much more 
thorough than any man." Then Broughton turned 
over the little pages of his book, and Musselboro pon- 
dered over the big pages of his book, and there was 
silence for a quarter of an hour. 

"There's something about nine hundred and fifteen 
pounds due to her," said Musselboro. 

"I daresay there is." 

"It would be a very good thing to let her have 
it if you've got it. The whole of it this morning, I 

"If I yes, if!" said Broughton. 

"I know there's more than that at the bank." 

"And I'm to draw out every shilling that there is I 
I'll see Mother Van — further first. She can have 
500/. if she likes it, — and the rest in a fortnight. 
Or she can have my note-of-hand for it all at fourteen 

"She won't like that at all," said Musselboro. 

"Then she must lump it I'm not going to bother 
myself about her. I've pretty nearly as much money 
in it as she has, and we're in a boat together. If she 
comes here bothering, you'd better tell her so." 

"You'll see her yourself?" 

^^Not unless she comes within the next ten mi- 
nutes. I must go down to the court. I said I'd be 
there by twelve. I've got somebody I want to see.'* 

"I'd stay if I were you," 

"Why should I stay for her? K she thmks that 
Tm going to make myself her clerk, she's mistaken. 
It may be all very well for you, Mussy, but it won't 
do for me. Tm not dependent on her, and I don^t 
want to marry her daughter," . . 




''It will simply end in her demanding to ha^e 'her 
money back again.^* 

"And hoir will she get it?" said Dobbs Bronghton. 
"I haven't a doubt in life bat she*d take it to-morrow 
if she could put her hands upon it. And then , after 
a bit, when she began to find that she didn't like four 
per cent., she'd bring it back again. But nobody can 
do business after such a fashion as that For the last 
three years she's drawn close upon two thousand a 
year for less than eighteen thousand pounds. When 
a woman wants to do that, she can't have her money 
in her pocket every Monday morning." 

''But you've done better than that yourself, 

"Of course I have. And who has made the con- 
nexion: and who has done the work? I suppose she 
doesn't think that I'm to have all the sweat and ihskt 
she is to have all the profit." 

"If you talk of work, Dobbs, it is I that have 
done the most of it" This Mr. Musselboro said in a 
very serious voice, and with a look of much reproach. 

"And you've been paid for what you've done. 
Come, Mussy, you'd better not turn against me. You'll 
never get your change out of that Even if you 
marry the daughter, that won't give you the mother's 
money. She'll stick to every shilling of it till she 
dies; and she'd take it with her then, if i^e knew 
how." Having said this, he got up from his chair, 

Sut his little book into his pocket, and walked out of 
le office. He pushed his way across ihe court, which 
was more than ordinarily crowded with the implements 
of Burton and Bangles' trade, and as he passed under 
the covered way he encountered at the entrance aa 

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old womftn getting out of a eab. The old woman was, 
of course, Mother Van, as her partner, Mr. Dobbs 
Bronghton, irreverently called her. "Mrs. Van Siever, 
how d'ye do? Let me give you a hand. Fare from South 
Kensington? I always give the fellows three shillings." 

"You don't mean to tell me it's six miles I" And 
she tendered a florin to the man. 

"Can't take that, ma'am," said the cabman. 

"Can't take it! But you must take it Broughton, 
just get a policeman, will you?" Dobbs Broughton 
satisfied the driver out of his own pocket, and the cab 
was driven away. "What did you give him?" said 
Mrs. Van Siever. 

"Just another sixpence. There never is a police- 
man anywhere about here." 

"It'll be out of your own pocket, then," said Mrs. 
Van. "But you're not going away?" 

"I must be at Capel Court by half-past twelve; — 
I must, indeed. If it wasn't real business, I'd stay." 

"I told Musselboro I should be here." 

"He's up there, and he knows all about the busi- 
ness just as well as I do. When I found that I couldn't 
stay for you, I went through the account with him, 
and it's all settled. Good morning. I'll see you at 
the West End in a day or two." Then he made his 
way out into Lombard Street, and Mrs. Van Siever 
picked her steps across the yard, and mounted the 
stairs, and made her way into the room in which Mr. 
Musselboro was sitting. 

"Somebody's been smoking, Qus," she said, almost 
as soon as she had entered the room. 

"That's nothing new here," he replied, as he got 
up from his chair. 

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'^There^s no good being done when men sit and 
smoke over their work. Is it you, or he, or both of 

"Well; — it was Broughton was smoking just now. 
I don't smoke of a morning myself/' 

"What made him get up and run away when I 

"How can I tell, Mrs. Van Siever," said Mussel- 
boro, laughing. "If he did run away when you came, 
I suppose it was because he didn't want to see you." 

"And why shouldn't he want to see me? Gus, I 
expect the truth from you. How are things going on 
here?" To this question Mr. Musselboro made no im- 
mediate answer; but tilted himself back in his chair 
and took his hat off, and put his thumbs into the arm- 
holes of his waistcoat, and looked his patroness full in 
the face. "Gus," she said again, "I do expect the 
truth from you. How are things going on here?" 

" There'd be a good business, — if he'd only keep 
things together." 

"But he's idle. Isn't he idle?" 

"Confoundedly idle," said Musselboro. 

"And he drinks; — don't he drink in the day?" 

"Like the mischief, — some days. But that isn't 
the worst of it" 

"And what is the worst of it?" 

"Newmarket; — that's the rock he's going to 
pieces on." 

"You don't mean to say he takes the money out of 
the business for that?" And Mrs. Van Siever's face, 
as she asked the question, expressed almost a tragic 
horror. "If I thought that I wouldn't give him an 
hour's mercy." 

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fiOOK COtTRT. 109 

'^When a man bets he doesn^t well know what 
money he uses. I can't say that he takes money that 
is not his own. Situated as I am, I don^t know what 
is his own and what isn't. If your money was in my 
name I could keep a hand on it; — but as it is not I 
can do nothing. I can see that what is put out is put 
out fairly well; and when I think of it, Mrs. Van 
Siever, it is quite wonderful that we've lost so little. 
It has been next to nothing. That has been my doing; 
— and that's about all that I can do." 

"You must know whether he has used my money 
for his own purposes or not." 

"If you ask me, I think he has," said Mr. Mussel- 

"Then I'll go into it, and I'll find it out, and if it 
is so, as sure as my name's Van Siever, I'll sew him 
up." Having uttered which terrible threat, the old 
woman drew a chair to the table and seated herself 
fairly down, as though she were determined to go 
through all the books of the office before she quitted 
that room. Mrs. Van Siever in her present habiliments 
was not a thing so terrible to look at as she had been 
in her wiggeries at Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's dinner- 
table. Her curls were laid aside altogether, and she 
wore simply a front beneath her close bonnet, — and 
a very old front, too, which was not loudly offensive 
because it told no lies. Her eyes were as bright, and 
her little wizen face was as sharp, as ever; but the 
wizen face and the bright eyes were not so much amiss 
as seen together with the old dark brown silk dress 
which she now wore, as they had been with the 
wiggeries and the evening finery. Even now, in her 
morning costume, in her work-a-day business dress, as 

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we may call it, she looked to be very old, — so old 
that nobody could guess h^ a^ People attempting 
to gaess would say that she must be at least over 
eighty. And yet she was wiry, and strong, and nimble. 
It was not because she was feeUe that she was thought 
to be so old. They who so judged of her were led to 
their opinion by the extreme thinness of her face, and 
by the bnghtness of her eyes, joined to the d^th of 
the hollows in which they lay, and the red margin by 
which they were surrounded. It was not really the 
fact Ihat Mrs. Van Siever was so very aged, for she 
had still some years to live before she would reach 
eighty, but that she was such a weird c^d woman, so 
small, so ghastly, and so ugly! "TU aew him up, if 
he's been robbing me," she said. "I will, indeed." 
And she stretched out her hand to grab at the ledger 
which Musselboro had been using. 

"You won't understand anything fipom that," said 
he, pushing the book over to her. 

"You can explain it to me." 

"That's all straight sailing, that is." 

"And where does he keep the figures that ain't 
straight sailing? That's ihe book I want to see." 

"There is no such book." 

"Look here, Gus, — if I find you deceiving me 
I'll throw you overboard as sure as I'm a living 
woman. I will indeed. I'll have no mercy. I've stuck 
to you, jand made a man of you, and I expect you to 
stid^ to me." 

"Not much of a man," said Musselboro, with a 
touch of scorn in his voice. 

"You've never had a shilling yet but what I gave 

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"Teg; I have. I've liad what IVe voifced for, — 
aad worked confbimded hard too.*' 

"Look here, Musselboro; if you're going to throw 
me over,, just tell me so, and let us begin fair." 

"I'm not going to throw you over. I've always 
been on the square with you. Why don't you trust 
me out and out, and then I could do a deal better for 
you. You ask me now about your money. I don't 
know about your money, Mrs. Van Siever. How am 
I to know anything about your money, Mrs. Van 
Siever? You don't give me any power of keeping a 
hand upon Dobbs Broughton. I suppose you have 
security from Dobbs Broughton, but I don't know what 
security you have, Mrs. Van Siever. He owes you 
now 915/. 16«. 2d. on last year's account!" 

"Why doesn't he give me a cheque for the 

"He says he can't spare it. You may have 600/., 
and the rest when he can give it you. Or he'll give 
you his note-of-hand at fourteen days for the whole." 

"Bother his note*of-hand. Why should I take his 

"Do as you like, Mrs. Van Siever." 

"It's the interest on my own money. Why don't 
he give it me? I suppose he has had it." 

"You must ask him that, Mrs. Van Siever. You're 
in partnership with him, and he can tell you. Nobody 
else knows anything about it. If you were in partner* 
ship with me, then of course I could tell you. But 
you're not You've never trusted me, Mrs. Van Siever." 

The lady remained there closeted with Mr. Mussel* 
boro for an hour after that, and did, I think, at length 
learn something more as to the details of her partnered 

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bnsiness, than her faithful servant Mr. Musselboro had 
at first found himself able to give to her. And at laat 
they came to friendly and confidential terms, in the 
midst of which the personal welfare of Mr. Dobbs 
Broughton was, I fear, somewhat forgotten. Not that 
Mr. Musselboro palpably and plainly threw his friend 
overboard. He took his friend's part, — alleging ex- 
cuses for him, and pleading some facts. '* Of course, 
you know, a man like that is fond of pleasure, Mrs. 
Van Siever. He's been at it more or less all his life. 
I don't suppose he ever missed a Derby or an Oaks, 
or the cup at Ascot, or the Goodwood in his life." 
"He'll have to miss them before long, I'm thinking," 
said Mrs. Van Siever. "And as to not cashing up, 
you must remember, Mrs. Van Siever, that ten per 
cent, won't come in quite as regularly as four or five. 
"When you go for high interest, there must be hitches 
here and there. There must, indeed, Mrs. Van Siever." 
"I know all about it," said Mrs. Van Siever. "If he 
gave it me as soon as he got it himself, I shouldn't 
complain. Never mind. He's only got to give me my 
little bit of money out of the business, and then ho 
and I will be all square. You come and see Clara this 
evening, Gus." 

Then Mr. Musselboro put Mrs. Van Siever into 
another cab, and went out upon 'Change, — hanging 
about the Bank, and standing in Threadneedle Street, 
talking to other men just like himself. When he saw 
Dobbs Broughton he told that gentleman that Mrs. Van 
Siever had been in her tantrums, but that he had 
managed to pacify her before she left Hook Court 
"I'm to take her the cheque for the £.yq hundred to* 
night," he said. 

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fAMU. 113 



Ok the first of March, Conwaj Dalrji^ple's easel 
was put up in Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's boudoir up- 
stairs, the canvas was placed upon it on which the 
outlines of Jael and Sisera had been already drawn, 
and Mrs. Broughton and Clara Van Siever and Con- 
way Dalrymple were assembled with the view of steady 
art-work. But before we see how they began their 
work together, we will go back for a moment to John 
Eames on his return to his London lodgings. The 
first thing every man does when he returns home after 
an absence, is to look at his letters, and John Eames 
looked at his. There were not very many. There 
was a note marked immediate, from Sir Kaffle Buffle, 
in which Sir E. had scrawled in four lines a notifica- 
tion that he should be driven to an extremity of in- 
convenience if Eames were not at his post at half-past 
nine on the following morning. "I think I see myself 
there at that hour," said John. There was a notifica- 
tion of a house dinner, which he was asked to join, at 
his club, and a card for an evening gathering at Lady 
Glencora Palliser's, — procured for him by his friend 
Conway, — and an invitation to dinner at the house 
of his uncle, Mr. Toogood; and there was a scented 
note in the handwriting of a lady, which he did not 
recognize. ''My nearest and dearest friend, M. D. M.,'^ 
he i^aid, as he opened the note and looked at the signa- 
tiure. Then he read the letter from Miss Demolines. 

pts La$t Chr&nkite «f Barstt II. 3 

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^*Mt dear Mb. Eames, 

"Peat come to me at once. I know that you are 
to be back to-morrow* Do not lose an hour if you can 
help it I shall be at home at half-past five. I fear 
what you know of has been begun. But it certainly 
shall not go on. In one way or another it must be 
prevented. I won't say another word till I see you, 
but pray come at once. 

"Yours always, 

''ThwTBdayr "M. D* M." 

"Poor mamma isn't very well, so you had better 
ask for me." 

"Beautiful!" said Johnny, as he read the note. 
"There's nothing I like so much as a mystery, — 
especially if it's about nothing. I wonder why she is 
so desperately anxious that the picture should not be 
painted. I'd ask Dalrymple, only I should spoil the 
mystery." Then he sat himself down, and began to 
think of Lily. There could be no treason to Lily in 
his amusing himself with the freaks of such a woman 
as Miss Demolines. 

At eleven o'clock on the morning of the 1st of 
March, — the day following that on which Miss De* 
molines had written her note, — the easel was put up 
and the canvas was placed on it in Mrs. Broughton's 
room. Mrs. Broughton and Clara were both there, and 
when they had seen the outlines as far as it had been 
drawn, they proceeded to make arrangements for their 
future operations. The period of work was to begin 
always at eleven, and was to be continued for an hour 
and a half or for two hours on the days on which they 

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JABL. 115 

met I fear that there was a little improper Bchemiug 
in this against the two persons whom the ladies were 
bound to obey. Mr. Dobbs Broaghton invariably left 
his house soon after ten in the morning. It would 
sometimes happen, though not frequently, that he re- 
turned home early in the day, — at four perhaps, or 
even before that; and should he chance to do so while 
the picture was going on, he would catch them at their 
work if the work were postponed till after luncheon. 
And then again, Mrs. Van Siever would often go out 
in the morning, and when she did so, would always go 
without her daughter. On such occasions she went 
into the city, or to other resorts of business, at which, 
in some manner quite unintelligible to her daughter, 
she looked after her money. But when she did not go 
out in the morning, she did go out in the afternoon, 
and she would then require her daughter's company. 
There was some place to which she always went of a 
Friday morning, and at which she stayed for two or 
three hours. Friday therefore was a fitting day on 
which to begin the work at Mrs. Broughton's house. 
All this was explained between the three conspirators. 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton declared that if she entertained 
the slightest i^ea that her husband would object to the 
painting of the picture in her room, nothing on earth 
would induce her to lend her countenance to it; but 
yet it might be well not to tell him just at first, per- 
haps not till the sittings were over, — perhaps not till 
the picture was finished; as, otherwise, tidings of the 
picture might get round to ears which were not in- 
tended to hear it ^^Poor dear Dobbs is so careless 
with a secret.'' Miss Van Siever explained her motives 
in a YQiy different way. "I know mamma would not 

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let me do it if she knew it; and therefore I shall not 
tell her." "M7 dear Clara," said Mrs. Broughton with 
a smile, "you are so ontspokenl" "And why not?" 
said Miss Van Siever. "I am old enough to judge for 
myself. If mamma does not want to be deceived, she 
ought not to treat me like a child. Of course she'll 
find it out sooner or later; but I don^t care about 
that" Conway Dalrymple said nothing as the two 
ladies were thus excusing themselves. "How delightful 
it must be not to have a master," said Mrs. Broughton, 
addressing him. "But then a man has to work for his 
own bread," said he. "I suppose it comes about equal 
in the long run." 

Very little drawing or painting was done on that 
day. In the first place it was necessary that the 
question of costume should be settled, and both Mrs. 
Broughton and the artist had much to say on the sub- 
ject. It was considered proper that Jael should be 
dressed as a Jewess, and there came to be much 
question how Jewesses dressed themselves in those 
very early days. Mrs. Broughton had prepared her 
jewels and raiment of many colours, but the painter 
declared that the wife of Heber the Kenite would have 
no jewels. But when Mrs. Broughton discovered from 
her Bible that Heber had been connected by family 
ties with Moses, she was more than ever sure that 
Heber's wife would have in her tent much of the spoil- 
ings of the Egyptians. And when Clara Van Biever 
suggested that at any rate she would not have worn 
them in a time of conftision when soldiers were loose, 
flying about the country, Mrs. Broughton was quite 
confident that she would have put them on before she 
invited the captain of the enemy's host into her tent 

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JAEL. 117 

The artist at last took the matter into his own hand 
bj declaring that Miss Van Siever would sit the sub- 
ject much better without jewels, and therefore all Mrs. 
Broughton^s gewgaws were put back into their boxes. 
And then on four different times the two ladies had to 
retire into Mrs. Broughton^s room in order that Jael 
might be arrayed in various costumes, — and in each 
costume she had to kneel down, taking the hammer in 
her hand, and holding the pointed stick which had 
been prepared to do duty as the nail, upon the fore- 
bead of a dummy Sisera. At last it was decided that 
her raiment should be altogether white, and that she 
should wear, twisted round her head and falling over 
ber shoulder, a Boman silk scarf of various colours. 
"Where Jael could have gotten it I don't know," said 
Clara. "You may be sure that there were lots of such 
things among the Egyptians/* said Mrs. Broughton, 
"and that Moses brought away all the best for his own 

"And who is to be Sisera?" asked Mrs. Broughton 
in one of the pauses in their work. 

"I'm thinking of asking my friend John Eames 
to sit," 

"Of course we cannot sit together," said Miss Van 

"There's no reason why you shotild," said Dal- 
rymple. "I can do the second figure in my own 
room.'* Then there was a bargain made that Sisera 
should not be a portrait "It would never do," said 
Mrs. Broughton, shaking her head very gravely. 

Though there was really very little done to the 
picture on that day, the work was commenced; and 
Mrs. Broughton, who had at first objected strongly to 

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the idea, and who had said twenty times that it wad 
quite out of the question that it should be done in her 
house, became very eager in her delight about it 
Nobody should know anything of the picture till it 
should be exhibited. That would be best And it 
should be the picture of the year I She was a little 
heart-broken when Dalrymple assured her that it could 
not possibly be finished for exhibition in that May; 
but she came to again when he declared that he meant 
to put out all his strength upon it. "There will be 
five or six months' work in it," he said. "Will there, 
indeed? And how much work was there in *The 
Graces?'" "The Graces," as will perhaps be re- 
membered, was the triple portrait of Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton herself. This question the artist did not 
answer with absolute accuracy, but contented himself 
with declaring that with such a model as Mrs. Broughton 
the picture had been comparatively easy. 

Mrs. Broughton, having no doubt that ultimate ob- 
ject of which she had spoken to her friend Conway 
steadily in view, took occasion before the sitting was 
over to leave the room, so that the artist might have 
an opportunity of speaking a word in private to his 
model, — if he had any such word to speak. And 
Mrs. Broughton, as she did this, felt that she was doing 
her duty as a wife, a friend, and a Christian. She 
was doing her duty as a wife, because she was giving 
the clearest proof in the world, — the clearest at any 
rate to herself, — that the intimacy between herself 
and her friend Conway had in it nothing that was im- 
proper. And she was doing her duty as a friend, be- 
cause Clara Van Siever, with her large expectations, 
would be an eligible wife. And she was doing her 

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JAEti. 119 

duty as a Clmstian, because the whole thing was in- 
tended to be moral. Miss Bemolines had declared that 
her friend Maria Clutterbuck, — as Miss Demolines 
delighted to call Mrs. Bronghton, in memory of dear 
old innocent days, — had high principles; and the 
reader will see that she was justified in her declaration. 
^'It will be better so,^* said Mrs. Broughton, as she sat 
npon her bed and wiped a tear from the comer of her 
eye. '*Yes; it will be better so. There is' a pang. 
Of course there's a pang. But it will be better so." 
Acting upon this high principle, she allowed Conway 
Dalrymple five minutes to say what he had to say to 
Clara Van Siever. Then she allowed herself to in- 
dulge in some very savage feelings in reference to her 
husband, — accusing her husband in her thoughts of 
great cruelty, — nay, of brutality, because of certain 
sharp words that he had said as to Conway Dalrymple. 
"But of course he can't understand," said Mrs. Broughton 
to herself. "How is it to be expected that he should 

But she allowed her friend on this occasion only 
five minutes, thinking probably that so much time 
might suf&ce. A woman, when she is jealous, is apt 
to attribute to the other woman with whom her jealousy 
is concerned, both weakness and timidity, and to the 
man both audacity and strength. A woman who has 
herself taken perhaps twelve months in the winning, 
will think that another woman is to be won in five 
minutes. It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton had ever been won by any one except by 
Mr. Dobbs Broughton. At least, let it not be supposed 
that she had ever acknowledged a spark of love for 
Conway Dalrymple. But nevertheless there was enough 

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of jealousy in her present mood to make her think 
poorly of Miss Van Siever^s capacity for standing a 
siege against the artistes eloquence. Otherwise, having 
lefb the two together with the ohject which she had 
acknowledged to herself, she would hardly have re- 
turned to them after so very short an interval. 

"I hope you won't dislike the trouble of all this?" 
said Dalrymple to his model, as soon as Mrs. Broughton 
was gone. 

"I cannot say that I like it very much," said Miss 
Van Siever. 

"Tm afraid it will be a bore; — but I hope you'll 
go through with it" 

"I shall if I am not prevented," said Miss Van 
Siever. "When IVe said that 111 do a thing, I like 
to do it" 

There was a pause in the conversation which took 
up a considerable portion of the five minutes. Miss 
Van Siever was not holding her nail during these mo- 
ments, but was sitting in a commonplace way on her 
chair, while Dalrymple was scraping his palette. "I 
wonder what it was that first induced you to sit?" 
said he. 

"Oh, I don't know. I took a fancy for it" 

"I'm very glad you did take the fancy. You'll 
make an excellent model. If you won't mind posing 
again for a few minutes — I will not weary you to- 
day. Your right arm a little more forward." 

"But I should tumble down." 

"Not if you lean well on to the nail." 

"But that would have woken Sisera before she had 
struck a blow." 

"Never mind that Let us try it" Then Mrs. 

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JAEL. 121 

3roughton r^imed, with that pleasant feeling in her 
bosom of having done her duty as a wife, a friend, and 
a Christian. ^*Mrs. Bronghton," continued the painter, 
"just steady Miss Van Siever's shoulder with your hand; 
and now bring the arm and the elbow a little more 

"But Jael did not have a friend to help her in that 
way," said Miss Van Siever. 

At the end of an hour and a half the two ladies 
retired, and Jael disrobed herself, and Miss Van Siever 
put on her customary raiment. It was agreed among 
them that they had commenced their work auspiciously, 
and that they would meet again on the following Mon- 
day. The artist begged to be allowed an hour to go 
on with his work in Mrs. Broughton's room, and the 
hour was conceded to him. It was understood that he 
could not take the canvas backwards and forwards with 
him to his own house, and he pointed out that no pro- 
gress whatever could be made, unless he were oc- 
casionally allowed some such grace as this. Mrs. 
Broughton doubted and hesitated, made difficulties, and 
lifted up her hands in despair. "It is easy for you to 
say. Why not? but I know very well why not." But 
at last she gave way. "Honi soit qui mal y pense," she 
said; "that must be my protection." So she followed 
Miss Van Siever downstairs, leaving Mr. Dalrymple in 
possession of her boudoir. "I shall give you just one 
hour," she said, "and then I shall come and turn you 
out" So she went down, and, as Miss Van Siever 
would not sti^ to lunch with her, she ate her lunch 
by herself, sending a glass of sherry and a biscuit up 
to the poor painter at his work. 

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Exactly at the end of the hour she returned to him. 
"Now, Conway, you must go," she said. 

^'But why in such a hurry?" 

"Because I say that it must be so. When I say so, 
pray let that be sufficient" But still Dalrymple went 
on working. "Conway," she said, "how can you treat 
me with so much disdain?" 

"Disdain, Mrs. Broughton!" 

"Yes, disdain. Have I not begged you to under- 
stand that I cannot allow you to remain here, and yet 
you pay no attention to my wishes." 

**I have done now;" and he began to put his brushes 
and paints together. "I suppose all these things may 
remain here?" 

"Yes; they may remain. They must do so, of 
course. There; if you will put the easel in the comer, 
with the canvas behind it, they will not be seen if he 
should chance to come into the room." 

"He would not be angry, I suppose, if he saw 

"There is no knowing. Men are so unreasonable. 
All men are, I think. All those are whom I have had 
the fortune to know. Women generally say that men 
are selfish. I do not complain so much that they are 
selfish as that they are thoughtless. They are head- 
strong and do not look forward to results. Now 
you, — I do not think you would willingly do me an 

"I do not think I would." 

"I am sure you would not; — but yet you would 
forget to save me from one." 

"What injury?" 

"Oh, never mind. I am not thinking of anything 

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7AEL* • 123 

in particular. From myself, for instance. But we will 
not talk about that That way madness lies. Tell 
me, Conway; — what do you think of Clara Van 

"She is very handsome, certainly." 

"And clever?" 

"Decidedly clever. I should think she has a 
temper of her own." 

" What woman is there worth a straw that has not? 
If Clara Van Siever were ill-used, she would resent 
it I do not doubt that for a moment. I should not 
like to be the man who would do it." 

"Nor I, either," said Conway. 

"But there is plenty of feminine softness in that 
character, if she were treated with love and kindness. 
Conway, if you will take my advice you will ask 
Clara Van Siever to be your wife. But perhaps you 
have already." 

"Who-, I?" 

"Yes; you." 

"I have not done it yet, certainly, Mrs. Broughton." 

"And why should you not do it?" 

"There are two or three reasons; — but perhaps 
none of any great importance. Do you know of none, 
Mrs. Broughton?" 

"I know of none," said Mrs. Broughton in a very 
serious, — in almost a tragic tone; — "of none that 
should weigh for a moment As far as I am con- 
cerned, notHng would give me more pleasure." 

"That is so kind of you!" 

"I mean to be kind. I do, indeed, Conway. I 
know it will be better for you that you should be 
settled, — very much better. And it will be better 

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for me. I do not mind admitting that; — tbough in 
Baying so I trust greatly to your generosity to inter* 
pret my words properly." 

"I shall not flatter myself, if you mean that" 

"There is no question of flattery, Conway. The 
question is simply of truth and prudence. Do you not 
know that it would be better that you should be mar- 

"Not unless a certain gentleman were to die first," 
said Conway Dalrymple, as he deposited the last of liis 
painting paraphernalia in the recess which had been 
prepared for them by Mrs. Broughton. 

"Conway, how can you speak in that wicked, 
wicked way!" 

"I can assure you I do not wish the gentleman in 
question the slightest harm in the world. If his wel- 
fare depended on me, he should be as safe as the Bank 
of England." 

"And you will not take my advice?" 

"What advice?" 

"About Clara?" 

"Mrs. Broughton, matrimony is a very important 

"Indeed it is; — oh, who can say how important! 
There was a time, Conway, when I thought you had 
given your heart to Madalina Demolines." 

"Heaven forbidi" 

"And I grieved, because I thought that she was 
not worthy of you." 

"There was never anything in that, Mrs. Brough- 

"She thought that there was. At any rate, she 
said so. I know that for certain. She told me so 

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JABL. 125 

herself. But let that pass. Clara Van Siever is in 
everj respect very different firom Madalina. Clara, I 
think, is worthy of* you. And Conway, — of course 
it is not for me to dictate to you; but this I must tell 

you " Then she paused, as though she did not 

know how to finish her sentence. 

"What must you tell me?" 

"I will tell you nothing more. If you cannot 
understand what I have said, you must be more dull 
of comprehension than I believe you to be. Now go. 
Why are you not gone this half-hour?" 

"How could I go while you were giving me all 
this good advice?" 

"I have not asked you to stay. Go now, at any 
rate. And, remember, Conway, if this picture is to go 
on, I will not have you remaining here after the work 
is done. Will you remember that?" And she held 
him by the hand while he declared that he would re* 
member it. 

Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was no more in love with 
Conway Dalrymple than she was in love with King 
Charles on horseback at Charing Cross. And, over 
and beyond the protection which came to her in the 
course of nature irom unimpassioned feelings in this 
special phase of her life, — and indeed, I may say, in 
every phase of her life, — it must be acknowledged 
on her behalf that she did enjoy that protection which 
comes from what we call principle, — though the 
principle was not perhaps very high of its kind. Ma- 
daUna Dmnolines had been right when she talked of 
her friend Maria's p-inciples. Dobbs Broughton had 
been so far lucky in that jump in the dark which he 
had made in taking a wife to himself, that he had not 

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fallen upon a really vicious woman, or upon a woman 
of strong feeling. If it had come to be the lot of Mrs. 
Dobbs Broughton to have six hours' work to do every 
day of her life, I think that the work would have 
been done badly, but that it would have kept her free 
from all danger. As it was she had nothing to do. 
She had no child. She was not given to much read- 
ing. She could not sit with a needle in her hand all 
day. She had no aptitude for May meetings, or the 
excitement of charitable good works. Life with her 
was very dull, and she found no amusement within 
her reach so easy and so pleasant as the amusement of 
pretending to be in love. If all that she did and all 
that she said could only have been taken for its worth 
and for nothing more, by the different persons con- 
cerned, there was very little in it to flatter Mr. Dal- 
rymple or to give cause for tribulation to Mr. Brough- 
ton. She probably cared but little for either of them. 
She was one of those women to whom it is not given 
by nature to care very much for anybody. But, of the 
two, she certainly cared the most for Mr. Dobbs 
Broughton, — because Mr. Dobbs Broughton belonged 
to her. As to leaving Mr. Dobbs Broughton's house, 
and putting herself into the hands of another man, — 
no Imogen of a wife was ever less likely to take a 
step so wicked, so dangerous, and so generally dis- 
agreeable to all the parties concerned. 

But Conway Dalrymple, — though now and again 
he had got a side glance at her true character with 
clear-seeing eyes, — did allow himself to be flattered 
and deceived. He knew that she was foolish and 
ignorant, and that she often talked wonderful nonsense. 
He knew also that she was continually contradicting 

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JABL. 127 

herBelf, — as when she would strenuously beg him to 
leave her, while she would continue to talk to him in 
a strain that prevented the possibility of his going. 
But, nevertheless, he was flattered, and he did believe 
that she loved him. As to his love for her, — he 
knew very well that it amounted to nothing. Now and 
again, perhaps twice a week, if he saw her as often, 
he would say something which would imply a declara- 
tion of affection. He felt that as much as that was 
expected &om him, and that he ought not to hope to 
get off cheaper. And now that this little play was 
going on about Miss Van Siever, he did think that Mrs. 
Dobbs Broughton was doing her very best to over- 
come an unfortunate attachment It is so gratifying to 
a young man's feelings to suppose that another man^s 
wife has conceived an unfortunate attachment for him! 
Conway Dalrymple ought not to have been fooled 
by such a woman; but I fear that he was fooled by 

As he returned home to-day from Mrs. Broughton^s 
house to his own lodgings he rambled out for a while 
into Kensington Gardens, and thought of his position 
seriously. "I don't see why I should not marry her," 
he said to himself, thinking of course of Miss Van 
Siever. " If Maria is not in earnest it is not my fault. 
And it would be my wish that she should be in 
earnest. If I suppose her to be so, and take her at 
her word, she can have no right to quarrel with me. 
Poor Maria! at any rate it will be better for her, for 
no good can come of this kind of thing. And, by 
heavens, with a woman like that, of strong feelings, 
one never knows what may happen." And then he 
thought of the condition he would be in, if he were to 

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find her somQ fine day in his own rooms, and if sho 
were to tell him that she conld not go home agun, 
and that she meant to remain with him I 

In the meantime Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had gone 
down into her own drawing-room, had tacked herself 
up on the sofa, and had fallen fast asleep. 


A new Flirtation. 

John Eames sat at his office on the day after his 
return to London, and answered the various letters 
which he had found waiting for him at his lodgings 
on the previous evening. To Miss Demolines he had 
already written from his club, — a single line, which 
he considered to be appropriate to the mysterious ne- 
cessities of the occasion. "I will be with you at a 
quarter to six to-morrow. — J. E. Just returned." 
There was not another word; and as he scrawled it at 
one of the club tables while two or three men were 
talking to him, he felt rather proud of his cor- 
respondence. "It was capital ftm," he said; "and after 
all," — the "all" on tiiis occasion being Lily Dale, 
and the sadness of his disappointment at Allington, — 
"after all, let a fellow be ever so down in the mouth, 
a little amusement should do him good." And he re- 
flected further that the more a fellow be "down in the 
mouth," the more good the amusement would do him. 
He sent off his note, therefore, with some little inward 
rejoicing, — and a word or two also of spoken rejoicing. 
"What fun women are sometimes," he said to one o^ 
his friends, — a friend with whom he was very intimatOi 



eaUing him always Fred, and slapping Ids back, but 
whom he never bj any chance saw out of his club. 

"What's up now, Johnny? Some good fortune?" 

"Good fortune; no. I never have good fortunes of 
that kind^ , But IVe got hold of a young woman, — 
or rather a young woman has got hold of me, who 
insists on having a mystery with me. In the mystery 
itself there is not the slightest interest But the mysteri- 
ousness of it is charming. I have just written to her 
three words to settle an appointment for to-morrow. 
We don't sign our names lest the Postmaster-General 
should find out all about it." 

"Is she pretty?" 

"Well; — she isn't ugly. She has just enough of 
good looks to make the sort of thing pass off pleasantly. 
A mystery with a downright ugly young woman would 
be unpleasant." 

A^r this fashion the note from Miss Demolines 
had been received, and answered at once, but the other 
letters remained in his pocket till he reached his office 
on tibe following morning. Sir Kaffle had begged him 
to be there at half-past nine. This he had sworn he 
would not do; but he did seat himself in his room at 
ten minutes before ten, finding of course the whole 
building untenanted at that early hour, — that un- 
earthly hour^ as Johnny called it himself. "I shouldn't 
wonder if he really is here this morning," Johnny said, 
as he entered the building, "just that he may have an 
opportunity of jumping on me." But Sir Baffle was 
not there y and then Johnny began to abuse Sir Eaffle. 
"If ever I come here early to meet him again, because 
he says he means to be her^ himself, I hope I may be 
— blessed." On that especial morning it wds twelve 

Tka Last Chronicle of Barset U, ^ r^ I 

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before Sir Baffte nnuLe Iiis appearamce'^ audi JulmiifD 
avenged himself , — I regvet to have ta teUii^^-^ tijr 
a fibi That Sir Baffle fibbed first, if aa im» TaUd excuse 
whatoaer for Eames. 

"I^Yie> be^i at it ever since six o'deok,'^ said Sir 

"At what?'' said Johnny. 

"Work, tO'be sure; — and very hard work too* I 
believe the Chanoellor of the Exchequer thinks thai; he 
can call upon me to any extent that he pleases; — 
jnst any extent that he pleases. Bie doesn^t.give me 
credit for a desire to have a single hour to myself." 

"What would he do, Sir Baffle, if you were to get 
ill, or wear yourself out?" 

"He knows I'm not one of the wiearing^at sortr. 
You got my note last night?" 

"Yes; I got your note." 

"I'm sorry that I troubled youi; but I couldnlt help 
it. I didn't expect to get a box ftdl of papess a4 elevea 
o'clock last night" 

"You didn't put me out, Sir Baffle; I haj^ned to* 
have business of my own which prevented tibepossibility^ 
of my being here early." 

This was tibe way in which- John Eamesi airengied 
himself. Sir Baffle turned his fieice upon, his private 
secretary, and his face was very Uadk. JM^nmybore 
the gaae without dropping an eyelid* "I'minotigoin^ 
to stand it, and he may as well know: theit.a4t once," 
Johnny said to one of his Mends in> the office after^ 
wards. "If he ever wants any thing really done^ I'll 
do it; — though it should take me twelve, hours at > a 
stretcki B«t Fm not going to pretend; toj bdieve fdl 
die lies he tells me about the C9iancenor of thei Ex- 

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chequer, if that iir to' hv pairt of the prmirte seeretary's 
busmess', he hacd better get somebody else.'* B»t now 
Sir BHMe( wtem yeiif angry, and his> oomteiifeaioe was 
Ml of trraiJi as he. koked down upon his itoberdmate' 
BuUMt^^ *^If I had Gotne here, Mr. Eames, and had 
found you absent, I should have been very much an- 
noyed, very much* annoyed indeed, after having written 
HB I did;' 

"Tou would hi^v« found me absent at the hour you 
naxaed. As I wasn't here then, I think it's ody fair 
to' sny soi" 

"Fm- afraid you begrudge your time to the service, 
1&; Eames/' 

^*I do begrudge it when the service doesn't want it'* 

^At your i^e^ Mr; Barnes, thafs not for you' to 
ju^e. If I had aoted in that' way when I was young 
I sfa^iiib nev^ have filled the poison I now hold. I 
aftwi^a remesMbei^ in thoie' days that as^ I w«s the 
haoidi andr not^ ther head^ I Waif bound to hold myself 
iu' i4MM&ii&s» whether work might be rtsquired from me 
or' not'* 

^^W Tmj wanted, as hand now. Sir Baffle, Vm 

"Itatt's ali^ vefy^ weU; — but '^y were you not 
hev0 at the> hour I named?" 

'^Wellv Sif'Rafab, I cannoti say thWr the Caiancellor 
of ttoi ^cohequer detained^ me^ -^ hxub liiere was 
badness^ As I've been here fov ^)lalsf^two homrs, I 
am happy to iMxsk that iut iM» instance^ the pablio 
senrieef -mil not have suflbred f^om my dosobedaence." 

Sit Baffle was stiU standing iv^ hid hati on, and 
wilhi Miis b«ok to/ tiie- flire, and Mst oonntenanee was Ml 
of wnHk it waa^oii hiB tongdr tv tell* Johntiy that he 

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had bettor return to his former work in the outer officd. 
He greailj wanted the comfort of a private secretary 
who would believe in him — or at least pretend to 
believe in him. There are men who, though they have 
not sense enongh to be tme, have nevertheless sense 
enough to know that they cannot expect to be really 
believed in by those who are near enongh to them to 
know tibem. Sir Raffle Baffle was such a one. He 
would have greatly delighted in the services of some 
one who would trust him implicitly, — of some young 
man who would really believe all that he said of him-, 
self and of the Chancellor of the Exchequer; but he 
was wise enough to perceive that no such young man 
was to be had; or that any such young man, — could 
such a one be found, — would be absolutely useless 
for any purposes of work. He knew himself to be a 
liar whom nobody trusted. And he knew himself also 
to be a bully, — though he could not think so low of 
himself as to believe that he was a bully whom nobody 
feared. A private secretary was at the least bound to 
pretend to believe in him. There is a decency in sudi 
things, and that decency John Eames did not obcferve. 
He thought that he must get rid of John Eames, in 
spite of certain attractions which belonged to Johnny's 
appearance and general manners, and social standing, 
and reputed weidth. But it would not be wise to 
punish a man on the spot for breaking an appointment 
which he himself had not kept, and therefor^ he would 
wait for another opportunity. *'You had better go to 
your own room now,*' he said. ^'I am engaged on a 
matter connected witii the Treasury, in which I will 
not ask for your assistonce." He knew that Eames 
would not believe a word as to what he said about the 

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Treasury, — not even some very trifling base of truth 
which did exist; but the boast gave him an opportunity 
of putting an end to the interview after his own 
fasMou. Then John Eames went to his own room and 
answered the letters which he had in his pocket 

To the club dinner he would not go. "What's the 
use of paying two guineas for a dinner with fellows 
you see every day of your life?" he said. To Lady 
Glencora's he would go, and he wrote a line to his 
friend Dalrymple proposing that they should go together. 
And he would dine with his cousin Toogood in 
Tavistock Square. "One meets the queerest people in 
the world there," he said; "but Tommy Toogood is 
such a good fellow himself!" After that he had his 
lunch. Then he read the paper, and before he went 
away he wrote a dozen or two of private notes, 
presenting Sir Bafflers compliments right and left, and 
giving in no one note a single word of information 
that could be of any use to any person. Having thus 
earned his salary by half-past four oVlock he got into 
a hansom cab and had himself driven to Porchester 
Terrace. Miss Demolines was at home, of course, and 
he soon found liimself closeted with that interesting 
young woman. 

"I thought you never would have come." These 
were the first words she spoke. 

"My dear Miss Demolines, you must not forget 
that I have my bread to earn." 

"Fiddlestick — breadl As if I didn't know that 
you can get away from your office when you choose.'* 

"But, indeed, I cannot" 

•*What is there to prevent yon, Mr. Eames?" 

**rm not tied up like a dog, certainly; but who do 

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you suppose wiU do my work if I do not do it my- 
8el£? It is a fuel, though ^ world do«8 odt bettefw 
it, that men in public offices have ^t something 
to do-" 

"Now you aire laughing at me, I know; but you 
aro welcome, if you like it. It^s the way of Ihe world 
juBt at present that ladies should submit to that sort of 
thing from gentlemen." 

"What sort of thing. Miss Demolines?" 

"Chaff, — as you call it Courtesy is out of 
fashion, and gallantry has come to signify quite a dif- 
ferent kind of thing from what it usea to do." 

"The Sir Charles Grandison business is done and 
gone. That's what you mean, I suppose? Don't you 
think we should find it very heavy if we tried to get 
it back again?" 

"I'm n<^ going to ask you to be a Sir Charles 
Grandison, Mr. Eames. But never mind all that now. 
Do you know that that girl has absolutely had her &rst 
sitting for the picture?'* 

"Has she, indeed?" 

"She has. You may take my word for it. I know 
it as a fact What a fool that young man is!" 

"Which young man?" 

"Which young man I Conway Dairy mple to be 
sure. Artists are always weak. Of all men in ^be 
world tibey are the most subject to flatteiy from wo- 
men; and we all know that Conway Dairy mplo is i^ery 

" Up<ua my word I didn't know it," said Jf^njr. 

"Yes, you do. You must imow it Whew «a man 
goes about in a purple valvet ooat of eooryo he is 

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A msm jviiiETATioH. 135 

''I ^tertainlj emmet defend & puq>le velvet coat^' 

"That is what he wore when t^^ igirl sat to him 
"this moriiing.'* 

"This morning was it?" 

"Yes; this morning. They little think ika/t they 
ean do nothing without my know^g it. He was there 
for nearly four hours, and ^ewas dressed up in a 
white rohe as Jael, with a turhan on her head. Jael, 
indeed I I call it very improper, and I am quite 
astomi^ed that Maiia Giatterlraick should have lent 
herself to such a pkce af woi^. ThaA Maria was never 
very wise, of course we all know; hut I thought that 
she had principle enough to have kept her from this 
kind of tyng." 

"it's her fevered existence," said Johnny. 

"That is just it She must have excitement. It is 
Hke dram^drinking. And then, you know, ^ey are 
always living in the crater of a volcano." 

"Who are living in the craAelr of a volcano?" 

"The Dobbs Broughtons are. Of course they are. 
There is no saying what dajy a smash may come. 
These City people get so used to it that they enjoy it 
The risk is every thing to them." 

"They like io have a little certainty behind the 
risk, I fancy." 

"I'm afraid there is very littiie that's certain with 
Dobbs Broughton. But about this picture, Mr. iiames. 
I look to you to assist me there. It must be put a 
stop to. As to that I am determimed. It mnst be — 
pitt « — liUfp to." And as Miss Demolines repeated 
these last words with tremendoos emphasis she leimt 
with both her elbows on a Httle table that stood be- 
tween her and her visitor, and looked ti^th «li her 

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136 THE JjABt ohboniglb of barset. 

eyes into his face. ^'I do hope that you agree with 
me in that," said she. 

"Upon my word I do not see the harm of the pic- 
ture," said he. 

"You do not?" 

"Indeed, no. Why should not Dabymple paint 
Miss Van Siever as well as any other lady? It is his 
special husiness to paint ladies." 

"Look here, Mr. Eames " And now Miss 

Demolines, as she spoke, drew her own seat closer to 
that of her companion and pushed away the little tahle. 
"Do you suppose that Conway Dalrymple, in the usual 
way of his husiness, paints pictures of young ladies, 
of which their mothers know nothing? Do you sup- 
pose that he paints them in ladies' rooms without their 
husbands' knowledge? And in the common way of 
his business does he not expect to be paid for his 

"But what is all that to you and me, Miss Demo- 

"Is the welfare of your friend nothing to you? 
Would you like to see him become the victim of the 
artifice of such a girl as Clara Van Siever?" 

"Upon my word I think he is very well able to 
take care of himself" 

"And would you wish to see that poor creature's 
domestic hearth ruined and broken up?" 

"Which poor creature?" 

"Dobbs Broughton, to be sure." 

"I can't pretend that I care very much for Dobbs 
Broughton," said John Eames; "and you see I know 
80 little about his domestic hearth." 

"Oh, Mr. Eamesl" 

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^* Besides, her principles will pull her through. 
Yon told me yourself that Mrs. Broughton has h^h 

*^God forbid that I should say a word against Maria 
Clutterbuck," said Miss Demolines, fervently. ^^ Maria 
Clntterbuck was my early friend, and though words 
have been spoken which never should have been 
spoken, and diough things have been done which never 
should have been even dreamed of, still I will not 
desert Maria Olutterbuck in her hour of need. No, 

"I*m sure you*re what one may call a trump to 
your friends. Miss Demolines." 

^^I have always endeavoured to be so, and always 
shall. You, will find me so; — that is if you and I 
ever become intimate enough to feel that sort of friend- 

"There's nothing on earth I should like better," 
said Johnny. As soon as the words were out of his 
mouth he felt ashamed of himself. He knew that he 
did not in truth desire the friendship of Miss Demo- 
lines, and that any friendship with such a one would 
mean something different from friendship, — something 
that would be an injury to Lily Dale. A week had 
hardly passed since he had sworn a life's constancy 
to Lily Dale, — had sworn it, not to her only, but 
to himself; and now he was giving way to a flirtation 
with this woman, not because he liked it himself, but 
because he was too weak to keep out of it. 

"If that is true ," said Miss Demolines. 

"Oh, yes; it's quite true," said Johnny. 

"Then yon must earn my friendship by doing what 
I ask of you. That pictuire must not be painted* 

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Im must tell Conway Daliyinple as his friend that he 
•mst eease to «any on snoh an intri^iie in .another 
man's house." 

* *^Toa wotA6. ^mcdHiy oaAl painting a pidtore lan in- 
trigue; wonidywi?" 

^^Gerimkify I *woiild *whem it's >kept a seoiet from 
the husband 'by Ite wife, — and from the mother by 
the daughter. Uf ^t cannot be stopped in any other 
way, I must ^11 Mrs. Van ^iei?w, — I must, indeed. 
I have such an abhorrence of liie (^d woman, that I 
could not bring myself to speak to her, — but LidKmld 
write to her. ThatNi what I should do." 

"But what's the reason? You might <as well tell 
mo the real reason." Had Miss Demolines been 
christened Maay, or Fanny, or Jane, I think that 
John Eames would now have catied her by either of 
those names; but Madalina was such a mouth&l that 
he could not bring himself to use it at once. He had 
heard that among her intimates she was cHUed Maddy. 
He had an idea that he had heard Babympie in old 
times talk of her as Maddy MuUins, and just »i this 
moment the idea was not pleasant to him; at any rate 
he could not call her Maddy as yet "How am I to 
help you," he said, "unless I know all about it?" 

"I hate that giii like poison!" said Miss Demolines, 
confidentially, drawing herself very near to Johnny as 
she (E^oke. 

"But what has she done?" 

"What has ^le done? I can't teM yom what she 
has done. I could not demean myself by Ti^ating it 
Of course we «ll know what eke wants. She wants to 
eaCieh Oovway Daliymple. neat's -as ptadft as anything 
can l»6. Kot that I care about that" 

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"Of course not," said Johnny. 

"Not in the le^t. It's nothing to me. I have 
known Mr. Dalrymple no doubt, for a year or two, 
and I should be sorry to see a young man who has 
his ^ood points MCidfic^d in that soct of way. But it 
is mere <ac^uaintance between Mr. Dabrymple and me, 
and of course J ^cannot interfere." 

"She*U have a lot of money, you know." 

"He thinks so; does he? I sujipose that is what 
Mada has told him. Oh, Mr. Eames, you don't know 
the meanness of women; you don't, indeed. Men are 
80 much more noble." 

"Are they, do you think?" 

"Than some women. I see women doing things 
that really disgust me; I do, indeed; — things that I 
wouldn't do myself, were it ever so; — striving to 
cattch men in every possible way, and for such pur- 
poses] I wouldn't have believed it of Maria flutter- 
buck. I wouldn't indeed. However, I will never say 
a word against her, because she has been my friend. 
NotMng shall ever induce me." 

John Eames before he left Porchester Terrace, had 
at last succeeded in calling his fair friend Madalina, 
and had promised that he would endeavour to open 
the artist's eyes to the foUy of painting his picture in 
Broughton's house without Broughton's knowle4ge. 

y Google 



Mr. Toogood^s Ideas about Society. 

A DAY or two after the interview which was de- 
scribed in the last chapter John Eames dined with his 
uncle Mr. Thomas Toogood, in Tavistock Square. He 
was in the habit of doing this about once a month, and 
was a great favourite both with his cousins and with 
their mother. Mr. Toogood did not give dinner-parties; 
always begging those whom he asked to enjoy his hos- 
pitality, to take pot luck, and telling young men whom 
he could treat with familiarity, — such as his nephew, 
— that if they wanted to be regaled k la Russe they 
must not come to number 75, Tavistock Square. "A 
leg of mutton and trimmings; that will be about the 
outside of it," he would say; but he would add in a 
whisper, — "and a glass of port such as you don't get 
every day of your life." Polly and Lucy Toogood 
were pretty girls, and merry withal, and certain young 
men were well contented to accept the attorney's in- 
vitations, — whether attracted by the promised leg of 
mutton, or the port wine, or the young ladies, I will 
not attempt to say. But it had so happened that one 
young man, a clerk from John Eames' office, had 
partaken so often of the pot luck and port wine that 
Polly Toogood had conquered him by her charms, and 
he was now a slave, waiting an appropriate time for 
matrimonial sacrifice. William Summerkin was the 
young man's name; and as it was known that Mr. 
Summerkin was to inherit a fortune amounting to five 
thousand pounds from his maiden aunt, it was con- 
sidered that Polly Toogood was not doing amiss. "I'll 

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give you three hundred pounds, my boy, ju^ to put a 
few sheets on the beds," saidToogood the father, "and 
when the old birds are both dead she'll have a thou- 
sand pounds out of the nest That's the extent of 
Polly's fortune; — so now you know." Summerkin 
was, however, quite contented to have his own money 
settled on his darling Polly, and the whole thing was 
looked at witii pleasant and propitious eyes by the 
Tbogood connection. 

When John Eames entered the drawing-room Sum- 
m^kin and Polly were already there* Summerkin 
blushed up to his eyes, of course, but Polly sat as 
demurely as though she had been accustcMued to having 
lovers all her life. "Mamma will be dowii almost im- 
mediately, John," said Polly as soon as the first greetings 
were over, "and papa has come in, I know." 

"Summerkin," said Johnny, "I'm afraid you left 
the office before four o'clock." 

"No, I did not," said Summerkin. "I deny it." 

"Polly," said her cousin, "you should keep him in 
better order. He will certainly come to grief if he goes 
on like thisw I suppose you could do without him for 
half an hour." 

"I don't want him, I can assure you," said Polly. 

"I have only been here just five minutes," said 
Summ^kin, ^'and I came because Mrs. Toogood asked 
me to do a commission." 

"That's dva to you, Polly," said John. 

"It's quite as civil as I wisb him to be," said Polly. 
"And as for you, John, everybody knows that you're 
a goose, find that you always were a goose. Isn't he 
a,lwayd doing foolish things at the office, William?" 
But as John Eames was rather a great man at the In- 

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coiM'-tax Office, Summericm would not Mi into his 
Bweetbeart's joke ow tkk 8«lDr)ect, findii^ it easier and 
perhaps Be£&i tb ilwiMIs tie bodkins In TbllfA imrk* 
basket. Then Tbegood and Mrs* Toogeed entered ikm 
room tef;edier, and the Ioy«» were able- to be aloae: 
again daring the general greeting widi idanh Johimjr 
was welcomed. 

"Yon dwi't know the Silverbridge people^ — * do 
70U?*' asked Mr. Toogood. Eames said tiiat he did 
not. BJe had been at ^Iveibndge moiiB than once, but 
did not know veij much of the Sfhrerbridgians. "Be* 
cause Walker is cominf^ to dine here^ Walkert is the 
leading man in Silverbridge;" 

"And what is Walker;. — besides being: leading 
man^ in' ailrerbridge?" 

"He's a- lafirjer. Walker and Wintlurop. Bvery 
bodf)r know» Walker in Batfsetshire. I'veri beeii' down 
at Barchester since I saw ys^u." 

"Have> you indeed?" said Johnny* 

"And I'll tell you what I've beenabinit Ybu know 
Ifo. Crawley, don^t you?" 

"The Hogglestock clergyman t^unt has con^to'ginef? 
I don't know him personally. He's a sort ol^ cousin l^ 
macrii^e, you knew* -' 

"Of conrsei he is," said' Mr. Toogood^ "^Hlsi wife is 
my firstrcousin,^ and jcmp modier's^fiitt^eensini' Ke ostte 
here to me the other day; — or m^ePtO'tbe shop; I 
had never seeu<thet man befove in> mf ffifett^ Aidia^ very 
queer fellow he is tbo.^ Met camer ta mvabmft this 
trouble of his*, aadi of^eeursevl nuurtido) wbaMPi can for 
him. r got myself iii40ed«cad to WaUn^ wte> liHstiie 
management c^ tke^ proeecutieiii and^ I aifeed^ bitt> to 
come hei«( aiRb diHerto*da3fr!" 

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"And what sort of fellow did you find Crawley, 
uocle Tom?" 

^'Soch sk HTj^m fi^f ~ so nnlike an^ody else in 
the world!" 

"But I Bxu^oBi^f Im did take the money?" said 

^^I don,^t knowf what to say ahout it. I don^t indeed. 
If he took it he didn^t mean to steal it. I^m as sure 
tha^ man did^^t mean to> steal twmity. pounds as I e^ier 
could be of anything Peidiaps I ^all get someUiing 
about it out of Walker after dinner." Then Mr Walker 
entered the room. "Thw is very kind of you, Mr. 
Ws^er; very indeed^ I take it quite as a complimdat, 
your coming in in' this^ sort of way. It*s just pot luok, 
you know, and nothing else." Mr. Walker of course 
assured his host that he delighted. ''Just a leg o£ 
mutton and^a botde of old port, Mr. Walker," continued. 
Toogood. "We never get beyond that in the wwiy of. 
dinner-giving; do wie,, Maria?" 

But Maria was at this moment descanting on the' 
good luck of the family to her nephew, — and on one 
special piece of good luck which had just occurred. 
Mr. Summerkin's maiden aunt had declared her inten- 
tion of guying up: the fortune to the youngi people at 
once. Sb« had enough to live upoU) she said), a&d 
would therefore make two lovers happy. "And tfaeyfre 
to be married on thet first of May," said Lucy, — ^ that 
Lucy of whom her t&iher had boasted to Mr. Crawley 
that she kneiw; By^K>ii by heart, — "and won't that be 
jolly? Mamma« is going! out to look for a h^se for 
them to<-morrow. FanQy> PoUy with a. house of her 
own! Won't it be stunning? I wish: you were^ going 
to be married too, Johnny." *' 

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144 ME LASl? CBrttomCLfi OS* BA&SBt. 

"Don't be a fool, Lucy." 

"Of course I know that you are in love. I hope 
you are not going to give over being in love, Johnnyi 
because it is such fun/' 

"Wait till you're caught yourself, my girl." 

"I don't mean to be caught till some great swell 
comes this way. And as great swells never do come 
into Tavistock Square I shan't have a chance. I'll 
tell you what I would like; I'd like to have a Corsair, 
— or else a Giaour; — I think a CKaour would be 
nicest Only a Giaour wouldn't be a Giaour here, you 
know. Fancy a lover 'Who thundering comes on 
blackest steed, With slackened bit and hoof of speed.' 
Were not those the days to live in! But all that is 
over now, you know, and young-people take houses in 
Wobum Place, instead of being locked up, or drowned, 
or married to a hideous monster behind a veiL I sup- 
pose Jt's better as it is, for some reasons." 

"I think it must be more jolly, as you call it, 

"I'm not quite sure. I know I'd go back and be 
Medora, if I could. Mamma is always telling Polly 
that she must be carefal about William's dinner. But 
Conrad didn't care for his dinner. 'Light toil I to cull 
and dress thy frugal fare! See, I have plucked the 
fruit that promised best.' " 

"And how often do you think Conrad got drunk?" 

"I don't think he got drunk at all. There is no 
reason why he should, any more than William. Come 
along, and take me down to dinner. After all, papa's 
leg of mutton is better than Medora's apples, when one 
is as hungry as I am." 

The leg of mutton on this occasion consisted of soup,^' 

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^fish, and a bit of roast beef, and a couple of boiled 
fowls. "If I had only two children instead of twelve, 
Mr. Walker/' said the host, ^Td give you a dinner 
k la Russe.'* 

"I don't begrudge Mrs. Toogood a single arrow in 
her quiver on that score," said Mr. Walker. 

"People are getting to be so luxurious that one can^t 
live up to them at all," said Mrs. Toogood. "We dined 
out here with some new comers in the square only last 
week. We had asked them before, and they came 
quite in a quiet way, — ji»t like this; and when we 
got there we found they'd four kinds of ices after dinner ! " 

"And not a morsel of food on the table fit to eat," 
sfud Toogood. "I never was so poisoned in my life. 
As for soup, — it was just ^e washing of the pastrycook's 
kettle next door." 

"And how is one to live with such people, Mr. 
Walker?" continued Mrs. Toogood. "Of course we 
can't ask them back again. We can't give them four 
kmds of ices." 

"But would that be necessaiy? Perhaps they haven't 
got twelve children." 

"They haven't got any," said Toogood, triumphing; 
"not a cldck belonging to them. But you see one must 
do as other people do. I hate anything grand. I wouldn't 
want more than this for myself, if bank-notes were as 
plenty as curl-papers." 

"Nobody has any curl-papers now, papa," said Lucy. 

"But I can't bear to be outdone," said Mr. Toogood. 
"I think it's very unpleasant, — people living in that 
0ort of way. It's all very well telling me that I needn't 
live so too; — and of course I don't I can't afford to 
have four men in firom the confectioner's, dressed % 

Th$ Last ChrmieU tf Baratt, IL ^^ n \ 

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sight better than myself, at ten shillings a head. I 
canH afford it, and I don't do it But the worst of it 
is that I suffer beconse oiher. people ido it It stands to 
reason that I must either be driven along with the crowd, 
or else -be left behind. Now, 1 don?t Hke either. And 
what's the end of it? Why, I'm half earned away and 
half left behind.'' 

^^IJpon my word, papa, I don't think you're carried 
away at aU," said Lucy. 

'^ Yes, I am; and I'm ashamed of mysdf. Mr. Walker, 
I don't dare to ask you io drink a glass of wine wi& 
me in my own house, — that's whsA I don't, — because 
it's the proper thing for you to wait till somebody 
brings it you, and th^i to drink it by yourself. Thefire 
is no knowing whel^ier I mightn't offend you." And 
Mr. Toogood as he spoke grasped the decanter at his 
elbow. Mr. Walker grasped another at his elbow, and 
the two attorneys took their glass of wine together. 

"A very queer case this is of my cousin Crawley's," 
said Toogood to Walker, when the ladies had left tiie 
: dining-room. 

"A most distressing case. I never knew anything 
so much talked of in our part of the country." 

"He can't have been a popular man, 1 should say?" 

"No; not popular, — not in the ordinary way; — 
anything but that Nobody knew him personally ^be^re 
this matter came up." 

"But a good cl^gyman, probably? I^m interested 
in ike ease, of course, as his wife Is imy first-^cousin. 
You will understand, however, that liftnow nothing of 
him. My father tried to be civil to him'jonce, but 
Crawley wouldn't haive it at all. We aU iiioaght he was 
^nadthen. I sufipe8e*he 'has* done his dntytiiitiiBi parish?" 

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"He has quarrelled with tbe bishop, you know, — 
out aad out" 

''Has he, indeed-? But Fm not sure that I tUnk 
so very much about bishops, Jir. Walker." 

"TipaA depends y^y/mnch jon the particular bishop. 
Some people say ours isn't all that a bishop ought to 
be, while iOthers are very fond of him." 

"And Mr. Crawley belongs to the former set; that's 
all?" said Mr. Toogood. 

"No, .Mr. Toogood; that isn't all. The worst of 
your cousin is that he has an apiit^e to quarrel with 
everybody. He is o,ne of tibose n^^ who always think 
thew^ves to be ill-used. Now ow: deap. Dr. Arabin, 
has been jbis very old friend, — and as far as I can 
learn, a very good fidend; but it seems ithat Mr. Crawley 
has done his best to quarrel with him too." 

"He spoke of the dean in the highest terms to me." 

"He may, do that, — and yet quarrel with him. 
He'd quarrel with bis own right band, if he had no- 
thing else to quarrel with. That makes the difficulty, 
yon see. He^U t^ke nobody's advice. He thinks that 
we're ajl gainst him." 

"I suppose the world has been heavy on him, Mr. 

"The world has been very heavy on him," said 
John Eames, who had now been left iree to join the 
conversation, Mr. .Summerkin having gone .away to his 
lady-love. "You must not judge him as you do other 

"That is just it," said Mr. Walker. "And to what 
result , will tbat bring, uf ? " 

"That we ought to stretch a point in his fayoTur," 
said Toogopd. 


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"But why?" asked the attorney from Silverbridge. 
"What do we mean when we say that one man isn*t 
to be trusted as another? We nmply imply that he is 
not what we call responsible.'' 

"And I don't think Hr. Crawley is responsible/' 
said Johnny. 

"Then how can he be fit to haye charge of a 
parish?" said Mr. Walker. "You see where die diffi- 
culty is. How it embarrasses one all round. The 
amount of evidence as to the cheque is, I think, suffi- 
cient to get a verdict in an ordinary case, and the 
Crown has no alternative but so to treat it Then his 
friends come forward, — and from sympathy with his 
sufferings, I desire to be ranked among the number, 

— and say, 'Ah, but you should spare this man, be- 
cause he is not responsible.' Were he one who filled no 
position requiring special responsibility, that might be 
very well. His friends might undertake to look after 
him, and the prosecution might perhaps be smothered. 
But Mr. Crawley holds a living, and if he escape he 
will be triumphant, — especially triumphant over the 
bishop. Now, if he has really taken this money, and 
if his only excuse be that he did not know when he 
took it whether he was stealing or whether he was not, 

— for the sake of justice that ought not to be allowed." 
So spoke Mr. Walker. 

"You think he certainly did steal the money?" 
said Johnny. 

"You have heard the evidence, no doubt?" said 
Mr. Walker. 

"I don't feel quite sure about it, yet," said Mr. 

"Quite sure of what?" said Mr. Walker. 

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^^That the cheque was dropped in his house." 

**It was at any rate traced to his hands." 

^'I have no doubt about that," said Toogood. 

"And he can't account for it," said Walker. 

"A man isn't bound to show where he got his mo- 
ney," said Johnny. "Suppose that sovereign is marked," 
and Johnny produced a coin from his pocket, "and I 
don't know but what it is; and suppose it is proved to 
Lave belonged to some one who lost it, and then to be 
traced to my hands, — how am I|to say where I got it? 
If I were asked, I should simply decline to answer." 

"But a cheque is not a sovereign, Mr. Eames," 
said Walker. "It is presumed that a man can account 
for the possession of a cheque. It may be that a man 
should have a cheque in his possession and not be able 
to account for it, and should yet be open to no grave 
suspicion. In such a case a jury has to judge. Here 
is the fact: that Mr. Crawley has the cheque, and 
brings it into use some considerable time after it is 
drawn; and the additional fact that the drawer of the 
cheque had lost it, as he thought, in Mr. Crawley's 
house, and had looked for it there, soon after it was 
drawn, and long before it was paid. A jury must 
judge; but, as a lawyer, I should say that the burden 
of disproof lies with Mr. Crawley."- 

"Did you find out anything, Mr. Walker," said 
Toogood, "about the man who drove Mr. Soames that 

"No, — nothing." 

"The trap was from *The Dragon' at Barchester, 
I think?" 

"Yes, — from *The Dragon of Wantly.' " 

**A respectable sort of house?" 

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"Prettj well for that, I believe. I've liO(tird that 
the people are poor," said Mr. Walker. 

'^Somebodj told me that they'd had a queer lot 
about the house, and that three or four of them left 
just then. I think I heard that two or three men from 
the place went to New Zealand together. It just came 
out in conversation while I was in the inn-yard." 

"I have never heard anything of it," said Mr. Walker. 

^'I don't say that it can help us." 

"I don't see that it can," said Mr. Walker. 

After that there was a pause, and. Mr. Toogood 
pushed about the old port, and made some very stinging 
remarks as to the claret-drinking propensities of the 
age. "Gladstone claret the most of it is, I fancy," 
said Mr. Toogood. "I find that port wine which my 
father bought in the wood five-and-twenty years ago is 
good enough for me." Mr. Walker said that it was 
quite good enough for him, almost too good, and that 
he thought that he had had enough of it. The host 
threatened another bottle, and was up to draw the 
cork, — rather to the satisfaction of John Eames, who 
liked his uncle's port, — but Mr. Walker stopped 
him. "Not a drop more for me," he said, "You are 
quite sure?" "Quite sure." And Mr. Walker moved 
towards the door. 

"It's a' great pity, Mr. Walker," said Toogood, 
going back to the old subject, "that this dean and his 
wife should be away." 

"I understand that they will both be home before 
the trial," said Mr. Walker. 

"Yes, — but you know how very important it i6 
to learn beforehand exactly what your witnesses can 
prove and what they can't prove. And moreover, 

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though neither the dean not his wife might perha|)& he 
able to tell us anything themselTes, they might help to 
put OS' on the proper seent I think 1^11 send some- 
body after them. I think I will/^ 

"It would be a heavy expense, Mr. Toogood." 

"Yes," said Toogood, mournfully, thinking of the 
twelve children; "it would be a heavy expense. But 
I never like to stick at a thing when it ought to be 
done. I think I shall send a fellow after them." 

"ril go," said Johnny. 

"How can you go?" 

"I'll make old Snuffle give me leave." 

"But will that lessen the expense?" said Mr. Walker. 

"Well, yes, I think it will," said John, modestly. 

"My nephew is a rich man, Mr. Walker," said 

"That alters the case," said Mr. Walker. And thus, 
before they left the dining-room, it was setded that 
Jolin Eames should be taught his lesson and should 
Beek both Mrs. Arabin and Dr. Arabin on their travels. 


Grace Crawley at Home. 

Oh the morning after his return from London Mr. 
Crawley showed symptoms of great fatigue, and his 
wife implored him to remain in bed. But this he would 
not do. He would get up, and go out down to the 
brickfields. He had specially bound himself, — he 
said, to see that the duties of the parish did not suffer 
by being left in his hands* The bishop had endeavoured 
to place them in other hands, but he had persisted in 
retaining them* As he had done so he could allow no 

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weariness of his own to interfere, — and especially no 
weariness induced by labours undertaken on bis own 
bebalf. The day in the week bad come round on 
wbicb it was bis wont to visit the brickmakers, and be 
would visit them. So be dragged himself out of bis 
bed and went forth amidst the cold storm of a harsh 
wet March morning. His wife well knew when she 
beard hiB first word on that morning that one of those 
terrible moods had come upon him which made her 
doubt whether she ought to allow him to go anywhere 
alone. Latterly there had been some improvement in 
bis mental health. Since the day of his encounter with 
the bishop and Mrs. Proudie, though he had been as 
stubborn as ever, he bad been less apparently unhappy, 
less depressed in spirits. And the journey to London 
bad done him good. His wife had congratulated her- 
self on finding him able to set about his work like 
another man, and he himself had experienced a renewal, 
if not of hope, at any rate, of courage, which had given 
him a comfort which he had recognized. His common- 
sense had not been very striking in his interview with 
Mr. Toogood, but yet he bad talked more rationally 
then and had given a better account of the matter in 
hand than could have been expected from him for 
some weeks previously. But now that the labour was 
over, a reaction bad come upon him, and he went 
away from his house having hardly spoken a word to 
bis wife after the speech which he made about bis duty 
to his parish. 

I think that at this time nobody saw clearly the 
working of bis mind, — not even bis wife, who studied 
it very closely, who gave him credit for all bis high 
qualities, and who bad gradually learned to acknow- 

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ledge to herself that she must distrust his judgment in 
many things. She knew that he was good and yet 
weak, that he was afflicted by false pride and sup- 
ported by true pride, that his intellect was still very 
bright, yet so dismally obscured on many sides as 
almost to justify people in saying that he was mad. 
She knew that he was almost a saint, and yet almost 
a castaway through vanity and hatred of those above 
him. But she did not know that he knew all this of 
himself also. She did not comprehend that he should 
be hourly telling himself that people were calling him 
mad and were so calling him widi truth. It did not 
occur to her that he could see her insight into him. 
She doubted as to the way in which he had got the 
cheque, — never imagining, however, that he had wil- 
fully stolen it;. — thinking that his mind had been so 
much astray as to admit of his finding it and using it 
without wil^ guilt, — thinking also, alas, that a 
man who could so act was hardly fit for such duties 
as those which were entrusted to him. But she did 
not dream that this was precisely his own idea of his 
own state and of his own position; — that he was 
always inquiring of himself whether he was not mad; 
whether, if mad, he was not bound to lay down Ids 
of&ee ; that he was ever taxing himself with improper 
hostility to the bishop, — never forgetting for a mo- 
ment his wrath against the bishop and the bishop^s 
wife, stiU comforting himself with his triumph over the 
bishop *and the bishop^s wife, — but, for all that, ac- 
cusing himself of a heavy sin and proposing to himself 
to go to the palace and there humbly to relinquish liis 
clerical authority. Such a course of action he was 
proposing to himsdf , but not with any realized idea 

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that he would go act» He wa« as a man who walks 
along a riy^r^s hwak thinking of suicide, caleiulating 
how hest he might kill himself, — whether the river 
does not offer an opportunity too good to be neglected, 
telling himself that for many reasons he had better do 
so, suggesting to himself that the water is pleasant and 
cool, and that his ears would soon be deaf to the harsh 
noises of the world, — but yet knowing, or thinking 
that he knows, that he never will kill himself. So it 
was with Mr. Crawley. Though his imaginaition pic- 
tured to himself the whole seene, — how he would 
humble himself to the ground as he acknowledged his 
unfitness, how he would ^idure the small-voiced triumph 
of the little bishop, how, from the abjectness of his own 
humility, even from the ground on which he would be 
crouching, he would rebuke the loud-mouthed triumph 
of the bishop^s wife *, though there was no toadi want- 
ing to the picture which he thus drew, — he did not 
really propose to himself to commit diis professioinal: 
suicide. His wife, too, had considered whetioier it. 
might be in truth becoming that he should give up his 
clerical duties, at any rate for a while-, but she had 
never thought that the idea was present to his mind 

Mr. Toogood had told him that people would say 
that he was mad; and Mr. Toogood had looked at him, 
when he declared fbr the second time that he had no 
knowledge whence the cheque had come to him, as 
though his words were to be regarded as the words of 
some sick child. ^^Madl" he said to himself, as he 
walked home from the station that night *^Well; yes; 
and what if I am madP When I think of all that I 
have endured my wonder is that I should not have 

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been mad sooner/' And then he prayed, — yes, 
prayed, thai in his madness the Devil might not be 
too strong for him, and lliat he might be preserved 
from some tanible sin of mnrder or violence. What, 
if the idea should come to him in his madness that it 
would be well for him to slay his wife and his children? 
Only that was wanting to make him of all men the 
most nnfortana<«. 

He went down among the brickmakers on the fol- 
lowing morning, leaving the house almost without a 
morsel of food, and he remained at Hoggle End for 
the greater part of the day. There were sick persons 
there with whom he prayed, and then he sat talking 
willi rough men while they ate their dinners, and he 
read passages from the Bible to women while they 
washed their hnsbands* clothes. And for a while he 
sat with a little girl in his lap teaching the child her 
alphabet. If it were possible for him he would do his 
duty. He would spare himself in nothing, though he 
might BJiffer even to fainting. And on this occasion 
he did sij^er — almost to fainting, for as he returned 
home in the afternoon he was forced to lean from time 
to time against the banks on the road-side, while the 
cold sweat of weakness trickled down his face, in order 
that he might recover strength to go on a few yards. 
But he would persevere. If God would but leave to 
him mind enough for his work, he would go on. No 
personal suffering should deter him. He told himself 
that there had been men in the world whose sufferings 
were sharps even than his own. Of what sort had 
been the life of the man who had stood for years on 
the top of a pillar? But then the man on the pillar 
had been honoured by all around him. And thus, 

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though he had thought of the man on the pillar to en- 
courage himself hj remembering how lamentable had 
been that man's suffering, he came to reflect that after 
all his own sufferings were perhaps keener than those 
of the man on the pillar. 

When he reached home, he was very ill. There 
was no doubt about it then. He staggered to his arm- 
chair, and stared at his wife first, then smiled at her 
with a ghastly smile. He trembled all over, and when 
food was brought to him he could not eat it. Early 
on the next morning the doctor was by his bedside, 
and before that evening came he was delirious. He 
had been at intervals in this state for nearly two days, 
when Mrs. Crawley wrote to Grace, and though she 
had restrained lierself from telling everything, she had 
written with sufficient strength to bring Grace at once 
to her father^s bedside. 

He was not so ill when Grace arrived but that he 
knew her, and he seemed to receive some comfort from 
her coming. Before she had been in the house an 
hour she was reading Greek to him, and there was no 
wandering in his mind as to the due emphasis to be 
given to the plaints of the injured heroines, or as to 
the proper meaning of the choruses. And as he lay 
with his head half buried in the pillows, he shouted 
out long passages, lines from tragic plays by the score, 
and for a while seemed to have all the enjoyment of a 
dear old pleasure placed newly within his reach. But 
he tired of this after a while, and then, having looked 
round to see that his wife was not in the room, he 
began to talk of himself. 

"So you have been at Allington, my dear?" 

"Yes, papa." 

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^RAoti obaWlbt at Hold. l57 

"Is it a pretty place?" 

"Yes, papa; — very pretty." 

"And they were good to you?" 

"Yes, papa; — ^ very good." 

"Had they heard anything there ahout — me; of 
this trial that is to come on?" 

"Yes, papa; they had heard of it** 

"And what did they say? Yon need not think 
that yon will shock me by telling me. They cannot 
say worse there than people have said here, — or 
think worse." 

"They don't think at all badly of yon at Ailing- 
ton, papa." 

"But they must think badly of me if the magistrates 
were right?" 

"They suppose that there has been a mistake; — ^ 
as we all think." 

^^They do not try men at the assizes for mistakes." 

"That yon have been mistaken, I mean; — and 
the magistrates mistaken." 

"Both cannot have been mistaken, Orace." 

"I don't know how to explain myself, papa; but 
we all know that it is very sad, and are quite sure 
that yon have never meant for one moment to do any- 
thing that was wrong." 

"But people when they are, — you know what I 
mean, Grace; when they are not themselves, — do 
things that are wrong without meaning it." Then he 
paused, while she remained standing by him with her 
hand on the back of his. She was looking at his 
face, which had been turned towards her while they 
were reading together, but which now was so far 
moved that she knew that his eyes could not be fixed 

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upon hers. ** Of course if the bishop orders it, it shall 
be so,'' he said. ^^It is quite enough for me that he 
is the bishop." 

*^What has the bidiop ordered, papa?'' 

^^Nothing at all. It is she who does it He has 
given no opinion about it Of course not He has 
none to give. It is the woman. You ,go and tell her 
from me that in 9uch a matter I will npt obey the 
word of any woman living. Go at woe, when I tell 

Then she knew that her father's mind was wander- 
ing, and she koelt down by the bedside, still holding 
his hand. 

"Grace," he bjM. 

"Yes, papa, I am here." 

"Why do you not do what I tdl you?" And he 
sat upright in his bed. "I suppose you are afiraid of 
the woman?" 

"I should be afraid of her, dear papa." 

"I was not a&aid of her. When she spoke to me, 
I would have nothing to say to her; — not a word; 
not a word; — not a word." As he said this he waved 
his hands about "But as for him, — if It must be, 
it must I know I'm not fit for it Of cou^e I am 
not. Who is? But what has he ever done that he 
should be a dean? I beat him at everything;, almost 
.at everything. He got the Newdegate, and that was 
rabout all. Upon my word I think that was all." 

"But Dr. Arabin loves you truly, dear papa." 

"Love mel pshal Does he ever pome here to tea, 
as he used to do? No! I remember buttering toast 
for him down on my knees before the fire, because he 
liked it, — and keeping all the cream for him. He 

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should have had my hearths hlood if he wanted it* 
But now; — look at his books, Grace. It's the out' 
side of them he cares abont Tkey are aU gilt, but I 
doubt if he ever reads. As for her, — I will not 
allow any woman to tell me my dnty. No; — by my 
Maker; not even your mother, who is ^e best of 
women. And as for her, with her little hosband 
dangling at her apron-strings, as a call-whistle to be 
blown into when die pleases, — that she should dare 
to teach me my dnty! No! The men in the jury- 
box may decide it how they will. If they can believe 
a plain story, let them! If not, — let them do as 
they please. I am ready to bear it all.'* 

"Dear pi^a, you are tired. Will you not try to 

"Tell Mrs. Proudie what I say; and as for Arabin's 
money, I took it I know I took it. What would 
you have had me do? Shall I — see them — all — 
starve?" Then he fell back upon his bed and did sleep. 

The next day he was better, and insisted upon 
getting out of bed, and on sitting in his old arm-chair 
over the fire. And the Greek books were again had 
out; and Grace, not at all unwillingly, was putthrou^ 
her facings. "If you don't take care, my dear,'* he 
said, "Jane will beat you yet. She understands the 
force of the verbs better than you do." 

"I am very glad that she is doing so well, papa. 
I am sure I shall not begrudge her her superiority." 

"Ah, but you ^ould begrudge it her!" Jane was 
sitting by at tiie time, and the two sisters were holding 
each other by Ihe hand. "Always to be best; — 
always to be in advance of otiiers. That should be 
your motto." 

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160 The last chronicle op barset. 

"But we can't both be best, papa," said Jane. 

*'Ton can both strive to be best But Grace hsM 
the better voice. I remember when I knew the whole 
of the Antigone hy heart You girls should see which 
can learn it firsf 

"It would take such a long time,'' said Jane. 

"You are young, and what can you do better with 
your leisure hours? Fie, Jane! I did not expect 
that from you. When I was learning it I had eight 
or nine pupils, and read an hour a day with each of 
them. But I think that nobody works now as they 
used to work then. Where is your mamma? Tell 
her I think I could get out as far as Mrs. Cox's ^ if 
she would help me to dress." Soon after this he was 
in bed again, and his head was wandering; but still 
they knew that he was better than he had been. 

"You are more of a comfort to your papa than I 
can be," said Mrs. Crawley to her eldest daughter 
that night as they sat together, when everybody else 
was in bed. 

"Do not say that, mamma. Papa does not think so.'* 

"I cannot read Greek plays to him as you can do. 
I can only nurse him in his illness and endeavour to 
do my duty. Do you know, Grace, that I am be- 
ginning to fear that he half doubts me?" 

"Oh, mamma!" 

"That he half doubts me, and is half afraid of me. 
He does not think as he used to do, that I am alto- 
gether, heart and soul, on his side. I can see it in 
his eye as he watches me. He thinks that I am tired 
of him, — tired of his sufferings, tired of his poverty, 
tired of the evil which men say of him. I am not 
sure but what he thinks that I suspect him." 

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"Of what, mammaP" 

"Of general imfitness for die Work he has to do. 
The feelkig is not strong as yet, but I fear that he 
will teach himself to think that he has an enemy at 
his hearth, — not a Mend. It will be the saddest 
mistake he ever made.*' 

"He told me to-day that yon were the best of 
women. Those were his very wc»ds." 

"Were they, my dear? I am glad at least that he 
shonld say so to yon. He has been better since yon 
came; — a great deal better. For one day I was 
frightened; bnt I am sorry now that I sent for yon.'' 

"I am so glad mamma; so very glad." 

"Yon were happy there, — and comfortable. And 
if they were glad to have you, why shonld I have 
brought yon away?" 

"But I was not happy; — even though they were 

very good to me. How could I be happy there when 

I was thinking of you and pa^a and Jane here at 

home? Whatever there is here, I would sooner share 

it with you than be anywhere else, — while this 

trouble lasts." 

"My darling! — it is a great comfort to see you 
* 1) 

"Only that I knew that one less in the house 
would be a saving to you I shonld not have gone. 
When there is unhappiness, people should stay to- 
gether; — shouldn't they, mamma?" They were sitting 
quite close to each other, on an old sofa in a small 
upstairs room, from which a door opened into the 
larger chamber in which Mr. Crawley was lying. It 
bad been arranged between them that on this night 
A&s. Crawley should remain with her husband, and 

The Last Chronicle of Barset. U. 11 

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that Grace should go to her bed. It was now past 
one o^clock, but she was still there, clinging to her 
mother^s side, with her mother^s arm drawn round her. 
^* Mamma,*' she said, when they had both been silent 
for some ten minutes, *'I have got something to tell 


"Yes, mamma; to-night, if you will let me." 

"But you promised that you would go to bed. 
You were up all last night." 

"I am not sleepy, mamma." 

"Of course you shall tell me what you please, 
dearest. Is it a secret? Is it something I am not to 

"You must say how that ought to be, mamma. I 
shall not tell it to any one else." 

"Well, dear?" 

"Sit comfortably, mamma; — there; like that, and 
let me have your hand. It's a terrible story to have 
to tell." 

"A terrible story, Grace?" 

"I mean that you must not draw away from me. 
I shall want to feel that you are quite close to me. 
Mamma, while I was at Allington, Major Grantly 
came there." 

"Did he, my dear?" 

"Yes, mamma." 

"Did he know them before?" 

"No, mamma; not at the Small House. But he 
came there — to see me. He asked me — to be his 
wife. Don't move, mamma." 

"My darling child! I won't move, dearest. Well; 
and what did you say to him? God bless him, at any 

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rate. May God bless him, because he has seen with 
a true eye, and felt with a noble instinct It is some- 
thing, Grace, to have been wooed by such a man at 
such a time." 

*' Mamma, it did make me feel proud; it did." 

"You had known him well before, — of course? 
I knew that you and he were friends, Grace." 

"Yes, we were friends. I always liked him. I 
used not to know what to think about him. Miss 
Anno Prettyman told me that it would be so; and 
once before I thought so myself." 

"And had you made up your mind what to say to 

" Yes, I had then. But I did not say it" 

"Did not say what you had made up your mind 
to say?" 

"That was before all this had happened to papa." 

"I understand you, dearest" 

"When Miss Anne Prettyman told me that I should 
be ready with my answer, and when I saw that Miss 
Prettyman herself used to let him come to the house 
and seemed te wish that I should see him when he 
came, and when he once was — so very gentle and 
kind, and when he said that he wanted me to love 
Edith, Oh, mamma!" 

"Yes, darling, I know. Of course you loved 

"Yes, mamma. And I do love him. How could 
one not love him?" 

"I love him, — for loving you." 

"But, mamma, one is bound not to do a harm to 
any one that one loves. Sa when he came to Ailing- 
ton I told him that I could not be his wife." 

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"Did yon, my dear?" 

"Yes; I did. Was I not right? Onght I to go 
to him to bring a disgrace npon all the family, jnst 
hecanse he is so good that he asks me? Shall I in- 
jnre him becanse he wants to do me a service?" 

"If he loves yon, Ghrace, the service he will re- 
quire will be yonr love in return." 

"That is all very well, mamma, — in books; but 
I do not believe it in reality. Being in love is very 
nice, and in poetry they make it out to be everything. 
But I do not think I should make Major Grantly 
happy if when I became his wife his own father and 
mother would not see him. I know I should be so 
wretched myself, that I could not live." 

"But would it be so?" 

"Yes; — I think it would. And the archdeacon 
is very rich, and can leave all his money away from 
Major Grantly if he pleases. Think what I should 
feel if I were the cause of Edith losing her fortune!" 

"But why do you suppose these terrible things?" 

"I have a reason for supposing them. This must 
be a secret. Miss Anne Pretty man wrote to me." 

"I wish Miss Anne Prettyman's hand had been in 
the fire." 

"No, mamma; no; she was right. Would not I 
have wished, do you think, to have learned all the 
truth about the matter before I answered him? Be- 
sides, it made no difference. I could have made no 
other answer while papa is under such a terrible ban. 
It is no time for us to think of being in love. We 
have got to love each other. Isn't it so, mamma?" 
The mother did not answer in words, but slipping 
down on her knees before het child threw her arms 

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roimdber girrsbodyin a close embrace. "Dear mamma; 
dearest mamma; tbis is wbat I wanted; — tbat you 
should love me!" 

"Love you, my angel!" 

"And trust me; — and tbat we sbould understand 
each otber, and stand close by each otber. We can 
do so mucb to comfort one anotber; — but we cannot 
comfort otber people." 

"He must know tbat best bimself, Grace; — but 
what did be say more to you?" 

"I don't tbink be said anything more." 

"He just left you then?" 

"He said one thing more." 

"And wbat was tbat?" 

"He said; — but he had no right to say it" 

"What was it, dear?" 

"Tbat be knew I loved him, and tbat therefore — 
But, mamma, do not tbink of tbat. I will never be 
his wife, — never, in opposition to bis family." 

"But be did not take your answer?" 

"He must take it, mamma. He shall take it If 
he can be stubborn, so can I. If be knows how to 
tbink of me more than himself, I can tbink of him 
and Edith more than of myself. Tbat is not quite 
jdl, mamma. Then he wrote to me. There is bis 

Mrs. Crawley read the letter. "I suppose you an- 
swered it?" 

"Yes, I answered it It was very bad, my letter. 
I sbould tbink after that he will never want to have 
anything more to say to me. I tried for two days, 
hurt; I could not write a nice letter." 

"But what did you say?" 

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"I don't in the least remember. It does not in tlie 
least signify now, but it was such a bad letter.'' 

"I daresay it was very nice." 

"It was terribly stiflF, and all abont a gentleman." 

"All about a gentleman! What do you mean, my 

"Gentleman is such a frightful word to have to 
use to a gentleman; but I did not know what else to 
say. Mamma, if you please, we won't talk about it; 
— not about the letter I mean. As for him, I'll talk 
about him for ever if you like it I don't mean to be 
a bit broken-hearted." 

"It seems to me that he is a gentleman." 

"Yes, mamma, that he is; and it is that which 
makes me so proud. When I think of it, I can hardly 
hold myself. But now I've tol^ you everything, and 
I'll go away, and go to bed." 


Mr. Toogood travels professionally. 

Mr. Toogood paid another visit to Barsetshire, in 
order that he might get a little further information 
which he thought would be necessary before despatch- 
ing his nephew upon the traces of Dean Arabin and 
his wife. He went down to Barchester after his work 
was over by an evening train, and put himself up at 
"The Dragon of Wantly," intending to have the whole 
of the next day for his work. Mr. Walker had asked 
him to come and take a return pot-luck dinner with 
Mrs. Walker at Silverbridge; and this he had said 
that he would do. After having "runmiaged about fop 
tidings" in Barchester, as he called it, he would take 

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the train for Silverbridge, and would get back to town 
in time for business on the third day. '^One day 
won't be much, you know," he said to his partner, as 
lie made half an apology for absenting hLmself on 
business which was not to be in any degree remunera- 
tive. "That sort of thing is very well when one does 
it without any expense," said Crump. "So it is," 
said Toogood; "and the expense won't make it any 
worse." He had made up his mind, and it was not pro- 
bable that anything Mr. Crump might say would deter him. 
He saw John Eames before he started. "You'll 
be ready this day week, will you?" John Eames 
promised that he would. "It will cost you some forty 
poimds, I should say. By George, — if you have to 
go on to Jerusalem, it will cost you more." In answer 
to this, Johnny pleaded that it would be as good as 
any other tour to him. He would see the world. 
"I'll tell you what," said Toogood; "I'll pay half. 
Only you mustn't tell Crump. And it will be quite 
as well not to tell Maria." But Johnny would 
hear nothing of this scheme. He would pay the 
entire cost of his own journey. He ,had lots of 
money, he said, and would like nothing better. "Then 
I'll run down," said Toogood, "and rummage up what 
tidings I can. As for writing to the dean, what's the 
good of writing to a man when you don't know where 
he is? Business letters always lie at hotels for two 
months, and theiji come back with double postage. 
From all I can hear, you'll stumble on her before you 
£nd him. If we do nothing else but bring him back, 
it will be a great thing to have the support of such 
a Mend in the court. A Barchester jury won't like to 
find a man guilty who is hand-and-glove with the dean." 

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Mr. Toogood reached the "Dragon" about el6T«n 
o'clock ) and aUowed the hoots to give him a pair of 
slippers and a candlestick. But he would not go to 
bed just at that moment. He would go into the 
coffee-room first, and have a glass of hot brandj-and- 
water. So the hot brandy-and-water was brought to 
him, and a cigar, and as he smoked and drank ho 
conversed with the waiter. The man was a waiter of 
the ancient class, a gray-haired waiter, with seedy 
clothes, and a dirty towel under his arm; not a dapper 
waiter, with black shiny hair, and dressed like a 
guest for a dinner-party. There are two distinct classes 
of waiters, and as far as I have been able to perceive, 
the special status of the waiter in question cannot be 
decided by observation of the class of waiter to which 
he belongs. In such a town as Barchester you may 
find the old waiter with the dirty towel in the head 
inn, or in the second-class inn, and so you may the 
dapper waiter. Or you may find both in each, and 
not know which is senior waiter and which junior 
waiter. But for s^*vice I always prefer the old waiter 
with the dirty towel, and I find it more easy to satisfy 
him in the matter of ^xpences when my relations with 
the inn come to an end. 

"Have you been here long, John?" said Mr. 

"A goodish many years, sir." 

"So I thought, by the look of you. One can see 
that you belong in a way to the place. You do a 
good deal of business here, I suppose, at this time of 
the year?" 

"Well, sir, pretty fiur. The house ain't what it 
used to be, sir." 

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**Times are bad at Barchester, — are they?" 

''I don't know much abont tl^ times. It's the 
people is worse than the times, I think. Thej used 
to Hke to have a little bit of dinner now and again at 
a hotel; — and a drop of something to drink after it" 

*^And don't they like it now?" 

*^I think they like it well enough, but they don't 
do it I suppose it's their wives as don't let 'em come 
out and enjoy theirselves. There used to be the Goose 
and Glee club; — that was once a month. They've 
gone and clean done away with themselves, — that 
club has. There's old Bumpter in the High Street, — 
he's the last of the old Geese. They died off, you see, 
and when Mr. Biddle died they wouldn't choose another 
president. A club for having dinner, sir, ain't nothing 
without a president." 

"I suppose not." 

"And there's the Freemasons. They must meet 
you know, sir, in course, because of the dooties. Bui 
if you'll believe me, sir, they don't so much as wet 
their whistles. They don't indeed. It always used to 
be a supper, and that was once a month. Now they 
pays a rent for the use of the room! Who is to get a 
living out of that, sir? — not in the way of a waiter, 
that is." 

"If that's the way things are going on I suppose 
the sa*vants leave their places pretty often?" 

"I don't know about that, sir. A man may do a 
deal worse than ^The Dragon of Wantly.' Them as 
goes away to better themselves, often worses themselves, 
as I call it I've seen a good deal of that" 

''And you stick to the old shop?" 

"Yes, sir; I've been here fifteen year, I think it ig» 

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There's a many goes away, as doesn't go out of their 
own heads, you know, sir." 

"They get the sack, you mean?" 

"There's words between them and master, or more 
likely, missus. That's where it is. Servants is so 
foolish. I often tell 'em how wrong folks are to say 
that soft words butter no parsnips, and hard words 
break no bones." 

"I think you've lost some of the old hands here 
since this time last year, John?" 

"You knows the house then, sir?" 

"WeU; — I've been here before." 

"There was four of them went, I think it's just 
about twelve months back, sir." 

"There was a man in the yard I used to know, 
and last time I was down here, I found that he was 

"There was one of 'em out of the yard, and two 
out of the house. Master and them had got to very 
high words. There was poor Scuttle, who had been 
post-boy at *The Compasses' before he came here." 

"He went away to New Zealand, didn't he?" 

"B'leve he did, sir; or to some foreign parts. And 
Anne, as was under-chambermaid here; she went with 
him, fool as she was. They got theirselves married 
and went off, and he was well nigh as old as me. But 
seems he'd saved a little money, and that goes a long 
way with any girl." 

"Was he the man who drove Mr. Soames that day 
the cheque was lost?" Mr. Toogood asked this question 
perhaps a little too abruptly. At any rate he obtained 
no answer to it. The waiter said he knew nothing 
about Mr. Soames, or the cheque, and the lawyer sus- 

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pecting that the waiter was suspecting him, finished his 
brandy-and-water and went to bed. 

Earlj on the following morning he observed that 
he was specially regarded by a shabby-looking man, 
dressed in black, but in a black suit that > was veiy old, 
with a red nose, whom he had seen in the hotel on 
the preceding day; and he learned that this man was a 
cousin of the landlord, — one Dan Stringer, — who 
acted as a clerk in the hotel bar. He took an op- 
portunity also of saying a word to Mr. Stringer the 
landlord, — whom he found to be a somewhat forlorn 
and gouty individual, seated on cushions in a little 
parlour behind the bar. After breakfast he went out, 
and having twice walked round the Cathedral close and 
inspected the front of the palace and looked up at the 
windows of the prebendaries' houses, he knocked at the 
door of the deanery. The dean and Mrs. Arabin were 
on the Continent, he was told. Then he asked for 
Mr. Harding, having learned that Mr. Harding was 
Mrs. Arabin^s father, and that he lived at the deanery. 
Mr. Harding was at home, but was not very well, the 
servant said. Mr. Toogood, however, persevered, send- 
ing up his card, and saying that he wished to have a 
few minutes^ conversation with Mr. Harding on very 
particular business. He wrote a word upon his card 
before giving it to the servant, — "about Mr. Crawley." 
In a few minutes he was shown into the library, and 
had hardly time, while looking at the shelves, to re- 
member what Mr. Crawley had said of his anger at the 
beautiful bindings, before an old man, very thin and 
very pale, shufBed into the room. He stooped a good 
deal, and his black clothes were very loose about his 
shrunken limbs. He was not decrepit, nor did 1)0 

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seem to be one who had advanced to extreme old age; 
but yet he shuffled rather than walked, hardly raising 
his feet £rom th« ground. Mr. Toogood, as he came 
forward to meet him , thought that he had never seen 
a sweeter face. There was very much of mdancholy 
in it, of that soft sadness of age which seems to ac- 
knowledge, and in some sort to regret, the waning oil 
of life; but the r^ret to be read in such faces has in 
it nothing of the bitterness of grief; there is no repining 
that the end has come, but simply a touch of sorrow 
that so much that is dear must be left behind. Mr. 
Harding shook hands with his visitor, and invited him 
to sit down, and then seated himself, folding his hands 
together over his knees, and he said a few words in a 
very low voice as to the absence of his daughter and 
ef the dean. 

"I hope you will excuse my troubling you," said 
Mr. Toogood. 

"It is no trouble at all, — if I could be of any 
use. . I don't know whether it is proper, but may I 
ask whether you call as, -^ as, — as a friend of Mr. 

"Altogether as a Mend, Mr. Harding." 

"I'm glad of that; though of course I am well 
aware that the gentlemen engaged on the prosecution 
must do their duty. Still, — I don't know, somehow 
I would rather not hear them speak of this poor gentle- 
man before the trial." 

"You know Mr, Crawley, then?" 

"Very s^htly, — very slightly indeed. He is a 
gentleman not much given to social habits, and has 
been but seldom here. But he is an old fiiend whom 
my son-in-law loves dearly." 

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im. TooaooD travbls professionally. 173 

'Tm glad to bear jou say tluLt, Mr. .Harding. 
Periiaps before I go any furth^ I ought to tell you 
that Mrs. Crawley and I are first-cousins.^* 

"Oh, indeed. Then you are a firiend." 

"I never saw him in my life till a few days ago, 
He is very queor you know, — very queer indeed. 
I'm a lawyer, Mr. Harding, practising in London; — 
an attorney, that is.'' At each separate announcement 
Mr. Hardbig bowed, and when Toogood named his 
special branch of his profession Mr. Harding bowed 
lower than before, as Uiough desirous of showing that 
he had great respect for attorneys. "And of course I'm 
anxious, if only out of respect for the family, that my 
wife's cousin should pull through this little difficulty, 
if possible." 

"And for the sake of the poor man himself too, 
and i^r his wife, and his children; — and for the sake 
of the cloth." 

"Exactly; taking it all together it's such a pity, 
you know. I think, Mr. Harding, he can hardly have 
intended to steal the money." 

"I'm sure he did not." 

"It's very hard to be sure of anybody, Mr. Harding; 
— very hard." 

"I feel quite sure that he did not He has been a 
most pious, hardworking clergyman. I cannot bring 
myself to think that he is guilty. What does the Latin 
proverb say? *No one of a sudden becomes most 

"But the temptation, Mr. Harding, was very strong. 
He was awfully badg^ed about his debts. That 
butcher in Silv^bridge waa playing the mischief with 

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"All the butchers in Barsetshire could not make an 
honest man steal money, and I think that Mr. Grawlej 
is an honest man. Youll excuse me for being a little 
hot about one of my own order." 

"Why; he's my cousin, — or rather, my wife's. 
But the fact is, Mr. Harding, we must get hold of the 
dean as soon as possible; and Tm going to send a 
gentleman after him." 

"To send a gentleman after him?" said Mr. Harding, 
almost in dismay. 

"Yes; I think that will be best" 

"I'm afraid he'll have to go a long way, Mr. 

"The dean, I'm told, is in Jerusalem." 

"I'm afraid he is, — or on his journey there. He's 
to be there for the Easter week, and Sunday we^ will 
be Easter Sunday. But why should the gentleman 
want to go to Jerusalem after the dean?" 

Then Mr. Toogood explained as well as he was 
able that the dean might have something to say on the 
subject which would serve Mr. Crawley's defence. "We 
shouldn't leave any stone unturned," said Mr. Toogood. 
"As far as I can judge, Crawley still thinks, — or 
half thinks, — that he got the cheque from your son- 
in-law." Mr. Harding shook his head sorrowfully. 
"I'm not saying he did, you know," continued Mr. 
Toogood. "I can't see myself how it is possible; — 
but still, we ought not to leave any stone unturned. 
And Mrs. Arabin, — can you tell me at all where we 
shall find her?" 

"Has she anything to do with it, Mr. Toogood?" 

"I can't quite say that she has, but it's just possible. 
As I said before, Mr. Harding, we mustn't leave a 

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stone unturned. They're not expected here till the end 
of April?" 

"About the 25th or 26th, I think." 

"And the assizes are the 28th. The judges come 
into the city on that day. It will be too late to wait 
till then. We must have our defence ready you know. 
Can you say where my Mend will find Mrs. Arabin?" 

Mr. Harding began nursing his knee, patting it 
and being very tender to it, as he sat meditating with 
his head on one side, — meditating not so much as to 
the nature of his answer as to that of the question. 
Could it be necessary that any emissary from a lawyer^s 
office should be sent after his daughter? He did not 
like the idea of his Eleanor being disturbed by ques« 
tions as to a theft Though she had been twice married 
and had a son who was now nearly a man, still she 
was his Eleanor. But if it was necessary on Mr. 
Crawley's behalf, of course it must be done. "Her 
last address was at Paris, sir; but I think she has gone 
on to Florence. She has Mends there, and she pur- 
poses to meet the dean at Venice on his return." Then 
Mr. Harding turned the table and wrote on a card his 
daughter's address. 

"I suppose Mrs. Arabin must have heard of the 
affair?" said Mr. Toogood. 

"She had not done so when she last wrote. I men- 
tioned it to her the other day, before I knew that she 
had left Paris. If my letters and her sister's letters 
have been sent on to her, she must know it now." 

Then Mr. Toogood got up to take his leave. "You 
will excuse me for troubling you, I hope, Mr. Harding.'* 

"Oh, sir, pray do not mention that It is no troublOi 
if one could only be of any service." 

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"One can always tary to be of service. In these 
afPairs so mnch is to be done by rummaging about, as 
I always call it Hiere have been many theatrical 
managers, you know, Mr. Harding, who have usually 
made up their pieces according to the dresses they have 
happened to have in their wardrobes." 

"Have there, indeed, now? I never should have 
thought of that." 

"And we lawyers have to do the same thing." 
"Not with your clothes, Mr. Toogood?" 
"Not exactly with our clothes; — but with our in- 

"I do not quite understand you, Mr. Toogood." 
"In preparing a defence we have to rummage about 
and get up what we cim. If we can't find anything 
that suits us exactly, we are obliged to use what we 
do find as well as we can. I rememb^, when I was 
a young man, an ostler was to be tried for stealing 
some oats in the Borough; and he did steal them too, 
and sold them at a rag-shop r^ularly. The evidence 
against him was as plain as a pike-staff. All I could 
find out was that on a certain day a horse had trod on 
the fellow's foot So we put it to the jury whether 
the man could walk as far as the rag-shop with a bag 
of oats when he was dead lame; — and we got him 

"Did you though?" said Mr. Harding. 
"Yes, we did." 
"And he was guilty?" 
"He had been at it regularly for months." 
"Dear, dear, dearl"*^ Wouldn't it have been better 
to have had him punished for the fault, — gently; so 
as to warn him of the consequences of such doings?" 

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MB. rrooaooD travels professiohally. 177 

"Oar business was to get him off, — and we got 
him off. It's my business to get my cousin's husband 
off, if I can, and we must do it, by hook or crook. 
It's a very difficult piece of work, because he won't 
let us employ a barrister. However, I shall have one 
in the court and say nothing to him about it at all. 
Good-by, Mr. Harding. As you say, it would be a 
thousand pities that a clergyman should be convicted 
of a theft; — and one so well connected too." 

Mr. Harding, when he was left alone, began to 
turn the matter over in his mind and to reflect whether 
the thousand pities of which Mr. Toogood had spoken 
appertained to the conviction of the criminal, or the 
doing of the crime. "If he did steal the money I sup- 
pose he ought to be punished, let him be ever so much 
a clergyman," said Mr. Harding to himself. But yet, 
— how terrible it would be! Of clergymen convicted 
of fraud in London he had often heard; but nothing 
of the kind had ever disgraced the diocese to which he 
belonged since he had known it. He could not teach 
himself to hope that Mr. Crawley should be acquitted 
if Mr. Crawley were guilty; — but he could teach him- 
fleirto believe that Mr. Crawley was innocent Some- 
thing of a doubt had crept across his mind as he talked 
to the lawyer. Mr. Toogood, though Mrs. Crawley 
was his cousin, seemed to believe that the money had 
been stolen; and Mr. Toogood as a lawyer ought to 
understand such matters better than an old secluded 
clergyman in Barchester. But, nevertheless, Mr. Too- 
good might be wrong; and Mr. Harding succeeded in 
satisfying himself at last that he could not be doing 
harm in thinking that Mr. Toogood was wrong. When 
he had made up his Qiind on this matter he sat down 

n. Last ChranicU 0/ Bamt Jl Digitized^^GoOglc 


aad wrote the following letter, which he addressed to 
his daughter at the post-ofdce in Florence: — 

Deanery, March—, 186—. 

^^Dbabest Nelly, — 

"When I wrote on Tuesday I told you ahout poor 
Mr. Crawley, that he was the clergyman in Barsetshire 
of whose misfortune you read an account in Galignani^s 
Messenger, — and I diink Susan must have written about 
it also, because everybody here is talking of nothing 
else, ^d because, of course, we know how strong a 
regard the dean has for Mr. Crawley. But since that 
something has occurred which makes me write to yon 
again, — at once. A gentleman has just been here, 
and has indeed only this moment left me, who tells me 
that he is an attorney in London, and that he is nearly 
related to Mrs. Crawley. He seems to be a very good- 
natured man, and I daresay he understands lus busi- 
ness as a lawy^. His name is Toogood, and he has 
come down as he says to get evidence to help the poor 
gentleman on his trial. I cannot understand how ibis 
should be necessary, because it seems to me that the 
evidence should all be wanted on the other side. I 
cannot for a moment suppose that a clergyman a&d a 
gentleman such as Mr. Crawley should have stolen 
money, and if he is innocent I cannot understand why 
all this trouble should be necessary to prevent a jury 
finding him guilty. 

^^Mr. Toogood came here because he wanted to see 
the dean, — and you also. He did not explain, as 
far as I can remember, why he wanted to see you; but 
he said it would be necessary, and that he was going 
to send off a messenger to find you first, and the dean 

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afta*ward& It has something to do with the mo&ey 
which wae given to Mr. Oawley last year, and which, 
if I rememW right, was yonr poresent. But of course 
Mr. Toogood could not have known anything about 
that However, I gave him the address, — poste 
restante, Florence, — and I daresay that somebody 
will make you out before long, if you are still stopping 
at Florence. I did not like letting him go without 
telling you about it, as I thought that a lawyer^s com- 
ing to you would startle you. 

"The bairns are quite well, as I told you in my 
other letter, and Miss Jones says that little EUy is as 
good as gold. They are with me every morning and 
evening, and behave like darling angels, as they are. 
Posy is my own little jewel always. You may be 
quite sure I do nothing to spoil them. 

"God bless you, dearest Nelly, 

"Your most affectionate father, 

"Septimus Habdikg.*' 

After this he wrote another letter to his 'other 
daughter, Mrs. Grantly, telling her also of Mr. Too- 
good's visit; and then he spent the remainder of the 
day thinking over the gravity of the occurrence. How 
terrible would it be if a beneficed clergyman in the 
diocese should really be fotmd guilty of theft by a jury 
firom the city! And then he had always heard so high 
a character of this man from his son-in-law. No, — it 
was impossible to believe that Mr. Crawley had m 
truth stolen a cheque for twenty pounds! 

Mr. Toogood could get no other information in 
Barchester, and went on to Silverbridge early in the 
afternoon. He was half disposed to go by Hoggle- 

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stock and look np his cotusin, whom he had never seen, 
and his consin^s hosband, npon whose business he was 
now intent", but on reflection he feared that he might 
do more harm than good. He had qnite appreciated 
the fact that Mr. Grawlej was not like other men. 
^^The man's not above half-saved,'* he had said to his 
wife, — meaning thereby to insinuate that the poor 
clergyman was not in full possession of his wits. And, 
to tell the truth of Mr. Toogood, he was a little afraid 
of his relative. There was a something in Mr. Craw- 
ley's manner, in spite of his declared poverty, and in 
spite also of his extreme humility, which seemed to 
announce that he expected to be obeyed when he spoke 
on any point with authority. Mr. Toogood had not 
forgotten the tone in which Mr. Crawley had said to 
him, "Sir, this thing you cannot do." And he thought 
that, upon the whole, he had better not go to Hoggle- 
stock on this occasion. 

When at Silverbridge , he began at once to "rum- 
mage about." His chief rummaging was to be done at 
Mr. Walker's table; but before dinner he had time to 
call upon the magistrate's clerk, and ask a few ques- 
tions as to the proceedings at the sitting from which 
Mr. Crawley was committed. He found a very taciturn 
old man, who was nearly as dif&cult to deal with in 
any rummaging process as a porcupine. But, never- 
theless, at last he reached a state of conversation which 
was not absolutely hostile. Mr. Toogood pleaded that 
he was the poor man's cousin, — pleaded that, as the 
family lawyer, he was naturally the poor man's pro- 
tector at such a time as the present, — pleaded also 
that as the poor man was so very poor, no one else 
could come forward on his behalf, — and in this way 




Bomewhat softened the hard sharpness of the old por- 
cupine^s quills. But after all this, there was very little 
to be learned from the old porcupine. ^^There was not 
a magistrate on the bench,'* he said, ^^who had any 
doubt that the evidence was sufficient to justify them 
in sending the case to the assizes. They had all re- 
gretted," — the porcupine said in his softest moment, 
— "that the gentleman had come there without a legal 
adviser." "Ah, that's been the mischief of it all!" 
said Mr. Toogood, dashing his hand against the por- 
cupine's mahogany table. "But the facts were so 
strong, Mr. Toogood I" "Nobody there to soften 'em 
down, you know," said Mr. Toogood, shaking his head. 
Very little more than this was learned from the por- 
cupine; and then Mr. Toogood went away, and pre- 
pared for Mr. Walker's dinner. 

Mr. Walker had invited Dr. Tempest and Miss Anne 
Prettyman and Major Grantly to meet Mr. Toogood, 
and had explained, in a manner intended to be half 
earnest and half jocose, that though Mr. Toogood was 
an attorney, like himself, and was at this moment en- 
gaged in a noble way on behalf of his cousin's hus- 
band, without any idea of receiving back even the 
money which he would be out of pocket; still he wasn't 
quite, — not quite, you know — "not quite so much 
of a gentleman as I am," — Mr. Walker would have 
said, had he spoken out freely that which he insinuated. 
But he contented himself with the emphasis he put 
upon the "not quite," which expressed his meaning 
fully. And Mr. Walker was correct in his opinion of 
Mr. Toogood. As regards the two attorneys I will not 
venture to say that' either of them was not a "perfect 
gentleman." A perfect gentleman is a thing which I 

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182 22IB LAST OWBLOmcm OF BAfidiM?. 

canDot define. But midoobtedly Mr. Wnlker was a 
bigger man in his way than was Mr. Toogood in his, 
and did habitually consort in the county of Barsetshire 
with men of higher standii^ than those with whom Mr. 
Toogood associated in London. 

It seemed to be understood that Mr. Crawley was 
to be the general subject of conversation, and no one 
attempted to talk about anything else. Indeed, at this 
time, very little else was talked about in that part of 
the county; — not only because of the interest naturrlly 
attaching to the question of the suspected guilt of a 
parish clergyman, but because much had become lately 
known of Mr. Crawley's character, and because it was 
known also that an iniernecine feud had arisen between 
him and the bbhop. It had undoubtedly become the 
general opinion that Mr. Crawley had picked up and 
used a cheque which was not his own; — that he had, 
in fact, stolen it; but there was, in spite of that belief, 
a general wish that he might be acquitted and left in 
his living. And when the tidings of Mr. Crawley's 
victory over the bishop at the palace had become 
bruited about, popular sympathy went with the victor. 
The theft was, as it were, condoned, and people made 
excuses which were not always rational, but which 
were founded on the instincts of true humanity. And 
now the tidings of another stage in the battle, as 
fought against Mr. Crawley by the bishop, had gone 
forth through the county, and men had heard that the 
rural dean was to be instructed to make inquiries 
which should be preliminary to proceedings against 
Mr. Crawley in an ecclesiastical court. Dr. Tempest, 
who was now about to meet Mr. Toogood at Mr. 
Walker's » was the rural dean to whom Mr. Oawley 

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wwild have to submit himself in any such inquiry; but 
Dr. Tempest had not as yet received from tiie bishop 
any official order on the subject. 

^^We are so delighted to think that you have taken 
up your cousin's case," said Mrs. Walker to Mr. Too- 
good, almost in a whisper. 

"He is not just my cousin, himself," said Mr. 
Toogood, "but of course it's all the same thing. And 
as to taking up his case, you see, my dear madam, 
he won't let me take it up." 

"I thought you had. I thought you were down 
here about it?" 

" Only on the sly, Mrs. Walker. He has such queer 
ideas that he will not allow a lawyer to be properly 
employed; and you can't conceive how hard that makes 
it. Do you know him, Mrs. Walker?" 

"We know his daughter Grace." And then Mrs. 
Walker whii^ered something further, which we may 
presume to have been an intimation that the gentleman 
opposite, — Major Grantly, — was supposed by some 
people to be very fond of Miss Grace Crawley. 

"Quite a child, isn't she?" said Toogood, whose 
own daughter, now about to be married, was three or 
four years older than Grace. 

"She's beyond being a child, I think. Of course 
she is young." 

"But I suppose this affair will knock all that on 
the head," said the lawyer. 

"I do not know how that may be; but they do 
say he is very much attached to, her. The major is a 
man of family, and of course it would be very dis- 
agreeable if Mr. Crawley were found guilty." 

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"Very disagreeable, indeed; but, npon my word^ 
Mrs. Walker, I don't. know what to say about it" 

"You think it will go against him, Mr. Toogood?" 
Mr. Toogood shook his head, and on seeing this, Mrs. 
Walker sighed deeply. 

"I can only say that I have heard nothing from 
the bishop as yet," said Dr. Tempest, after Hhe ladies 
had left the room. "Of course, if he thinks well to 
order it, the in([uiry must be made." 

"But how long would it take?" asked Mr. Walker. 

"Three months, I should think, — or perhaps more. 
Of course Crawley would do all that he could to delay 
us, and I am not at all sure that we should be in any 
very great hurry ourselves." 

"Who are the *we,' doctor?" said Mr. Walker. 

"I cannot make such an inquiry by myself, yon 
know. I suppose the bishop would ask me to select 
two or four other clergymen to act with me. That's 
the usual way of doing it But you may be quite 
sure of this. Walker; the assizes will be over, and the 
jury have found their verdict long before we have 
settled our preliminaries." 

"And what will be the good of your going on 
after that?" 

"Only this good: — if the unfortunate man be 
convicted " 

"Which he won't," said Mr. Toogood, who thought 
it expedient to put on a bolder front in talking of the 
matter to the rural dean, than he had assumed in his 
whispered conversation with Mrs. Walker. 

"I hope not, with all my heart," said the doctor. 
"But, perhaps, for the sake of the argument, the sup- 
position may be allowed to pass." 

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^^Certaiiilyt sir," said Mr. Toogood. '^For the sake 
of the argument, it may pass.** 

"If he be convicted, then, I suppose, there will 
be an end of the question. He would be sentenced 
for not less, I should say, than twelve months; and 
after that '' 

"And would be as good a parson of Hogglestock 
when he came out of prison as when he went in," said 
Mr. Walker. "The conviction and judgment in a civil 
court would not touch his temporality.*' 

"Certainly not,*' said Mr. Toogood. 

"Of course not," said the doctor. "We all know 
that; and in the event of Mr. Crawley coming back to 
his parish it would be open to the bishop to raise the 
question as to his fitness for the duties.** 

"Why shouldn*t he be as fit as any one else?*' 
said Mr. Toogood. 

"Simply because he would have been found to be 

a thief,** said the doctor. "You must excuse me, Mr. 

Toogood, but it*s only for the sake of the argument** 

. "I don't see what that has to do with it,** said Mr. 

Toogood. "He would have undergone his penalty.^* 

"It is preferable that a man who preaches from a 
pulpit should not have undergone such a penalty,** said 
the doctor. "But in practice, under such circumstances, 
— which we none of us anticipate, Mr. Toogood, — 
the living should no doubt be vacated. Mr. Crawley 
would probably hardly wish to come back. The jury 
will do their work before we can do ours, — will do 
it on a much better base than any we can have; and, 
when they have done it, the thing ought to be finished^ 
If the jury acquit him, the bishop cannot proceed any 

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Airther. If he be found guilty I tkink that the re- 
signation of the living must foUoir." 

^^It is all spite, then, on the bishop's part?'* said 
the mi^or. 

^'Not at all," said the doctor. *'The poor man is 
weak; that is all. He is driven to persecute because 
he cannot escape persecution himsel£ But it may really 
be a question whether his present proceeding is not 
right If I wwe bishop I should wait till die trial 
was over; that is all." 

From this and from much more that was said 
during the evening on the same subject Mr. Toogood 
gradually learned the position whAcb Mr. Crawley and 
the question of Mr. Crawley's guilt really held in the 
county, and he returned to town resolved to go on with 
the case. 

^^I'll have a barrister down express, and I'll defend 
him in his own teeth," he said to his wife. ^* There'll 
be a scene in court, I daresay, and the man will call 
upon his own counsel to hold his tongue and shut up 
his brief; and, as far as I can see, counsel in such a 
case would have no alternative. But there would come 
an explanation, — how Crawley was too honourable 
to employ a man whom he could not pay, and there 
would be a romance, and it would all go down with 
the jury. One wants sympathy in such a case as that 
— not evidence." 

*^And how much will it cost, Tom?" said Maria, 

"Only a trifle. We won't think of that yet There's 
John Eames is going all the way to Jerusalem, out of 
his pocket" 

"But Johnny hasuH got twelve children, Tom.'* 

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MR. CEOSffiE €K>BS IMfO THS CH*?. 187 

"One doesn't have a consm in trouble every day," 
said Toogood. *^And then you see there's something 
very pretty in the case. It's quite a pleasure getting 
it up." 


Mr. Crosbie goes into tho Gitf. 

"I've known the City now for more than ten years, 
Mr. Crosbie, and I never knew money to be so tight 
as it is at this moment. The best commercial bills 
going can't be done under nine, and any other kind 
of paper can't so much as get itself looked at." Thus 
spoke Mr. Musselboro. He was seated in Dobbs 
Broughton's arm-chair in Dobbs Broughton's room in 
Hook Court, on the hind legs of which he was 
balancing himself comfortably, and he was communi- 
cating his experience in City matters to our old friend, 
Adolphus Crosbie, — of whom we may surmise that 
he would not have been there, at that moment, in 
Hook Court, if things had been going well with him. 
It was now past eleven o'clock, and he should have 
been at his office at the West End. His position in 
his office was no doubt high enough to place him 
beyond the reach of any special inquiry as to such 
absences; but it is generally felt that when the Crosbies 
iof the West End have calls into the City about noon, 
things in the world are not going well with them. The 
man who goes into the City to look for money is 
generally one who does not know where to get money 
when he wants it Mr. Musselboro on this occasion 
kept his hat on his head, and there was something in 
the way in which he balanced his chair which was in 

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itself an offence to Mr. Crosbie's personal dignity. It 
was hardly as yet two months since Mr. Dobbs 
Broughton had assured him in that very room that 
there need not be the slightest anxiety about his bilL 
Of course it could be renewed, — the commission 
being duly paid. As Mr. Dobbs Broughton explained 
on that occasion, that was his business. There was 
nothing he liked so much as renewing bills for such 
customers as Mr. Crosbie*, and he was very candid at 
that meeting, explaining how he did this branch of his 
business, raising money ^on his own credit at four or 
£ve per cent , and lending it on his own judgment at 
eight or nine. Mr. Crosbie did not feel himself then 
called upon to exclaim that what he was called upon 
to pay was about twelve, perfectly understanding the 
comfort and grace of euphony; but he had turned it 
over in his mind, considering whether twelve per cent, 
was not more than he ought to be mulcted for the 
accommodation he wanted. Now, at the moment, he 
would have been glad to get it from Mr. Musselboro, 
without further words, for twenty. 

Things had much changed with Adolphus Crosbie 
when he was driven to mi^e morning visits to such a 
one as Mr. Musselboro with the view of having a bill 
renewed for two hundred and fifty pounds. In his 
early life he had always had the merit of being a care- 
ful man as to money. In some other respects he had 
gone astray very foolishly, — as has been partly ex- 
plained in our earlier chapters; but up to the date of 
his marriage with Lady Alexandrina De Courcy he 
had never had dealings in Hook Court or in any such 
locality. Money troubles had then come upon him. 
Lady Alexandrma, being the daughter of a countess^r 

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iad high ideas; and when, very shortly after his mar- 
riage, he had submitted to a separation from his noble 
wife, he had fonnd himself and his income to be tied 
np inextricably in the hands of one Mr. Mortimer 
Gazebee, a lawyer who had married one of his wife's 
sisters. It was not that Mr. Gazebee was dishonest; 
nor did Crosbie suspect him of dishonesty; but the 
lawyer was so wedded to the interest of the noble 
family with which he was connected, that he worked 
for them all as an inferior spider might be supposed 
to work, which, from the infirmity of its nature, was 
compelled by its instincts to be catching flies always 
for superior spiders. Mr. Mortimer Gazebee had in 
this way entangled Mr. Crosbie in his web on behalf 
of those noble spiders, the De Courcys, and our poor 
friend, in his endeavour to fight his way through the 
web, had fallen into the hands of the Hook Court 
firm of Mrs. Van Siever, Dobbs Broughton, and 

"Mr. Broughton told me when I was last here," 
said Crosbie, "that there would be no difficulty 
about it." 

"And it was renewed then; wasn't it?" 

" Of course it was, — for two months. But he was 
speaking of a continuation of renewal." 

"I'm afraid we can't do it, Mr. Crosbie. I'm afraid 
we can't, indeed, Money is so awful tight." 

"Of course I must pay what you choose to charge 

"It isn't that, Mr. Crosbie. The bill is out for 
collection, and must be collected. In times like these 
we must draw ourselves in a little, you know. Two 
hundred and fifty pounds isn't a great deal of money. 

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you will say; but every little helps, you know; and, 
besides, of course we go upoa a syebem. Business is 
business, and must not be made pleasure of. I should 
have had a great deal of pleasure in doing this for 
you, but it can't be done in the way of business." 

"When will Broughton be here?" 

"He may be in at any time; — I can't «ay when. 
I suppose he's down at the court now." 

"What court?" 

"Oapel Court" 

"I suppose I can see him th^re?" said Crosbie. 

"If you catch him you can see him, of course. 
But what good will that do you, Mr. Crosbie? I tell 
you that we can't do it for you. If Broughton was 
here this moment it couldn't make the slightest differ- 

Now Mr. Crosbie had an idea that Mr. Musselboro, 
though he sat in Dobbs Broughton's seat and kept on 
his hat, and balanced his chair on two legs, was in 
truth nothing more than a derk. He did not quite 
understand the manner in which the affairs of the 
establishment were worked, though he had been in^ 
formed that Mrs. Van Siever was one of the partners. 
That Dobbs Broughton was the managing man, who 
really did the business, he was convinced; and he did 
not therefore like to be answered peremptorily by such 
a one as Musselboro. "I should wish to see Mr. 
Broughton," he said. 

"You can call again, — or you can go down to 
the court if you like it. But you may take this as an 
answer &om me that the bill can't be renewed by us." 
At this moment the door of the room was opened, .and 
Dobbs Broughton himself came into it His face was 

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not at all pleasant, and any one might have seen with 
lialf an eye that the money-market was a great deal 
tighter than he liked it to be. "Here is Mr. Crosbie 
here, — abont that bill," said Mnsselboro. 

"Mr. Crosbie must take up his bill; that's all/' said 
Dobbs Bronghton. 

"But it doesn't suit me tc take it up," said Crosbie. 

"Then you must take it up without suiting you," 
said Dobbs Broughton. 

It might have been seen, I said, with half an eye, 
that Mr. Broughton did not like the state of the money- 
market; and it might also be seen with the other half 
that he had been endeavoaring to mitigate the bitter- 
ness of his dislike by alcoholic aid. Musselboro at 
once perceived that his patron and partner was half 
drunk, and Crosbie was aware that he had been drink- 
ing. But, nevertheless, it was necessary that some- 
thing more should be said. The bill would be due 
to-morrow, — was payable at Crosbie's bankers; and,* 
as Mr. Crosbie too well knew, there were no fiinds 
there for the purpose. And there were other purposes, 
very needful, for which Mr. Crosbie's funds were at 
the present moment unfortunately by no means suf- 
ficient. He stood for a few moments thinking what he 
would do; — whether he would leave the drunken 
man and his of&ce and let the bill take its chance, or 
whether he would make one more effort for an arrange- 
ment He did not for a moment believe that Broughton 
himself was subject to any pecuniary difficulty. 
Broughton lived in a big house, as rich men live, and 
had a name for commercial success. It never occurred 
to Crosbie that it was a matter of great moment to 
Dobbs Broughton himself that the bill shduld be taken 

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up. Crosbie still thought that Musselboro was hid 
special enemy, and that Broughton had joined Mussel- 
boro in his hostility simply because he was too drunk 
to know better. "You might, at any rate, answer me 
civilly, Mr. Broughton," he said. 

"I know nothing about civility with things as they 
are at present," said Broughton. "Civil by — ! There's 
nothing so civil as paying money when you owe it 
Musselboro, reach me down the decanter and some 
glasses. Perhaps Mr. Crosbie will wet his whistle." 

^'He don't want any wine, — nor you either," said 

"What's up now?" said Broughton, staggering 
across the room towards a cupboard, in which it was 
his custom to keep a provision of that comfort which 
he needed at the present moment. "I suppose I may 
stand a glass of wine to a fellow in my own room, if 
I like it" 

"I will take no wine, thank you," said Crosbie. 

"Then you can do the other thing. When I ask a 
gentleman to take a glass of wine, there is no com- 
pulsion. But about the bill there is compulsion. Do 
you understand that? You may drink, or let it alone; 
but pay you must. Why, Mussy, what d'ye think? — 
there's Carter, Ricketts and Carter; — I'm blessed if 
Carter just now didn't beg for two months , as though 
two months would be all the world to him, and that 
for a trumpery five hundred pounds. I never saw 
money like it is now; never." To this appeal, Mussel- 
boro made no reply, not caring, perhaps, at the present 
moment to sustain his partner. He still balanced him- 
self in his ohair, and still kept his hat on his head, 

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Even Mr. Crosbi^ be^^ io ]^iimYe J^i 1^. Mnssel- 
boro^s genius was in the ascendant in Hook Cqh^. 

"I can ha^^j 4)eUfiF!3," aa^ <Sw*bfte^ "ihftt things 
can be so bad >^W I ^s^janot ba\^i|i biUfor two Jatundned 
and fifty pounds renewed wb^n I a^ willii^ to fMoy 
for the accommodation. I hay^ jfk»t Am^ 9^nch «n tbie 
way of bills, but I never bad pne dishpnonred jfity 

^^Don^t let this be the first,^' said Dobbs Broioghton. 

"Kot if I can preyei^t it/' ftwd CijQsbie. "fint, to 
tell you th^ truth, Mr. ^rOY^hton, .my jbiU wiU be dis- 
honoured unless I ci^n b^^ it i¥^e>V7ed. If it does not 
suit you to do it, I supp^ise you oip recommend me to 
some one who can xoa^e it co^yeni^iit." 

"Why dou't you go to ypur 43wAers?" said 

"I never did .ask my baakers for anything of Uie 

"Then yon diojuld ^tiy wlwit your credit with them 
is wortb,'* s^id 3xaughtpqu " Jt isn't woi!th much here, 
as you can ji^rceiv^. Ha, b^, ha!" 

Crosbie, hea^d rthis, becasiie very angry; 
and Musselboro, pevceiyiiiig this, got out of his .chalr, 
so that he might be ;iii readiness to prevent any violence, 
if violence weare ,4^tteADpted. "It je^Uy is no good your 
staying liee^^^^ he tSaid- "Xou see that Broughioin bas 
been di^i^kiug. Th^e's ,no knowing what be n«y say 
or do." 

".To^ be blowed," said BtQugbton, >who had taken 
the arm-chair .fi^ sQon 4M9 Muss0lbo(i>p bad falft it 

"But you may believe .me ju ^^he wagr of business," 
continued Musselbpro, "when I r^ll you 'ihbftt it .really 
does not suit us to renew the biH. W/s^re pressed our- 
^plyes., ^n^ we must ppress ptbpP5p." 

The La8i Chrwide of Bars^, U, 13 

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**And who will do it for me?" said Crosbie, almost 
in despair. 

^* There are Burton and Bangles there, the wine- 
merchants down in the yard; perhaps they may accom- 
modate yon. It*8 aU in their line; but I'n^ told tbey 
charge uncommon dear." 

^^I don't know Messrs. Burton and Bangles," said 

"That needn't stand in yonr way. You tell them 
where you come from, and they'll make inquiry. If 
they think it's about right, they'll give you the money; 
and if they don't, they won't" 

Mr. Crosbie then left the office without exchanging 
another word with Dobbs Broughton, and went down 
into Hook Court As he descended the stairs he turned 
over in his mind the propriety of going to Messrs. 
Burton and Bangles with the view of relieving himself 
from his present difficulty. He knew that it was ruinous. 
Dealings even with such men as Dobbs Broughton and 
Musselboro, whom he presumed to be milder in their 
greed than Burton and Bangles, were, all of them, steps 
on the road to ruin. But what was he to do? If Ms 
bill were dishonoured, the fact would certainly become 
known at his office, and he might even ultimately be 
arrested. In the doorway at the bottom of the stairs 
he stood for some moments, looking over at Burton 
and Bangles', and he did not at all like the aspect of 
the establishment Inside the office he could see a man 
standing with a cigar in his mouth, very resplendent 
with a new hat, — with a hat remarkable for the bold 
upward curve of its rim, and this man was copiously 
decorated with a chain and seals hanging about widely 
over his waistcoat He was leaning with his hads> 

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against the counter, and was talking to some one on 
the other side of it. There was something in the man's 
look and manner that was utterly repulsive to Crosbie. 
He was more vulgar to the eye even than Musselboro, 
and his voice, which Crosbie could hear as he stood in 
the other doorway, was almost as detestable as that of 
Dobbs Broughton in his drunkenness. Crosbie did not 
doubt that this was either Burton or Bangles, and that 
the man standing inside wajs either Bangles or Burton. 
He could not bring himself to accost these men and 
tell them of his necessities, and propose to them that 
they should relieve him. In spite of what Musselboro 
had just said to him, he could not believe it possible 
that he should succeed, were he to do so without some 
introduction. So he left Hook Court and went out into 
the lane, hearing as he went the loud voice of the man 
with the tumed-up hat and the chain. 

But what was he to do? At the outset of his pe- 
cuniary troubles, when he first found it necessary to 
litigate some ^i^estion with the De Courcy people, and 
withstand the web which Mortimer Gazebee wove so 
assiduously, his own attorney had introduced him to 
Dobbs Broughton, and the assistance which he had 
needed had come to him, at any rate, without trouble. 
He did not especially like Mr. Broughton; and when 
Mr. Broughton first invited him to come and eat a little 
bit of dinner, he had told himself with painful remorse 
that in his early days he had been accustomed to eat his 
little bits of dinner with people of a different kind. But 
there had been nothing reaUy painful in this. Since 
his marriage with a daughter of the De Courcys, — 
by which marriage he had intended to climb to the 
highest pinnacle of social eating and drinking, — hQ 


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had gradoaUj found himself to be falling in the scale 
of such matters, and could bring himself to dine with 
a Dobbs Bronghton without any violent pain. But 
now he had fallen so low that Dobbs Bronghton had 
insulted him, and he was in such distress that be did 
not know where to turn for ten pounds. Mr. Gaoebee 
had beaten him at litigation, and his own lawyer had 
advised him that it would be foolish to try the matter 
ftirther. In his marriage with the noble daughter of 
the De Oourcys he had allowed the framers of the De 
Coarcy settlement to tie him up in such a way that 
now, even when chance had done so much for him in 
freeing him £rom his wifle, he was still bound to the 
De Courcy feustion. Money had been paid away, — on 
his behalf, as alleged by Mr. Gazebee, — like running 
water; money for ^imiture, money for the lease of a 
house, money when he had been separated firom his 
wife, money while she was living abroad. It had 
seemed to 1dm that he had been made to pay for the 
entire support of the female moiety of the De C5ourcy 
family which had settled itself at Baden-Baden, from 
the day, and in some respects from before the day, on 
which his wife had joined that moiety. He had done 
all in his power to struggle against these payments, 
but every such struggle had only cost him more money. 
Mr. Gazebee had written to him the civilest notes; but 
every note seemed to cost him money, - — every word 
of each note seemed to find its way into some bill. 
His wife had died and her body had been brought 
back, with all the pomp befitting the body of an earFs 
daughter, that it might be laid with the old De Courcy 
dust, — at his expense. The embalming of her dear 
lemains had cost a wondrous sum, and was a terrible 

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Mow upon him. All these items were showered upon 
him by Mr. Gazehee with the most courteously worded 
demands for settlement as soon as convenient. And 
then 9 when he applied that Lady Alexandrina's small 
fortune should be made over to him, — according to a 
certain agreement under which he had made over all 
his possessions to his wife, should she have survived 
him, — Mr. Gazebee expressed a nuld opinion that he 
was wrong in his law, and blandly recommended an 
amicable lawsuit. The amicable lawsuit was carried 
on. His own lawyer seemed to throw him over. Mr. 
Gazebee was successful in everything. No money came 
to him. Money was demanded &om him on old scores 
and on new scores, — and all that he received to con- 
sole him for what he had lost was a mourning ring with 
his wife's hair, — for which, with sundry other mourn- 
ing rings, he had to pay, — and an introduction to 
Mr. Dobbs Broughton. To Mr. Dobbs Broughton he 
owed five hundred pounds; and as regarded a bill for 
the one-half of that sum which was due to-morrow, Mr. 
Dobbs Broughton had refused to grant him renewal for 
a single month! 

I know no more uncomfortable walking than that 
which falls to the lot of men who go into the City to 
look for money, and who find none. Of all the lost 
steps trodden by men, surely the steps lost after that 
fashion are the most melancholy. It is not only that 
they are so vain, but that they are accompanied by 
so killing a sense of shame! To wait about in dingy 
rooms, which look on to bare walls, and are approached 
through some Hook Court; or to keep appointments at 
a low coffee-house, to which trystings the money-lender 
will not trouble himself to come unless it pleases him ; 


to be civil, almost suppliant, to a cunning knave whom 
the borrower loathes; to be refiised thrice, and then 
cheated with his eyes open on the fourth attempt; to 
submit himself to vulgarity of the foulest kind, and to 
have to seem to like it; to be badgered, reviled, and 
at last accused of want of honesty by ' the most frau- 
dulent of mankind; and at the same time to be clearly 
conscious of the ruin that is coming, — this is the fate 
of him who goes into the city to find money, not 
knowing where it is to be found! 

Crosbie went along the lane into Lombard Street, 
and then he stood still for a moment to think. Though 
he knew a good deal of affairs in general, he did not 
quite know what would happen to him if his bill should 
bo dishonoured. That somebody would bring it to 
him noted, and require him instantly to put his hand 
into his pocket and bring out the amount of the bill, 
plus the amount of certain expenses, he thought that 
he did know. And he knew that were he in trade he 
would become a bankrupt; and he was well aware that 
such an occurrence would prove him to be insolvent. 
But he did not know what his creditors would imme- 
diately have the power of doing. That the fact of the 
bill having been dishonoured would reach the Board 
under which he served, — and, therefore, also the fact 
that he had had recourse to such bill transactions, — 
this alone was enough to fill him with dismay. In early 
life he had carried his head so high, he had been so 
much more than a mere Government clerk, that the 
idea of the coming disgrace almost killed him. Would 
it not be well that he should put an end to himself, 
and thus escape? What was there in the world now 
for which it was worth his while to live? Lily, whom 

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he had once gained, and by that gain had placed him- 
self high in all hopes of happiness and riches, — whom 
he had then thrown away from him, and who had 
again seemed to be almost within his reach, — Lily 
had so refused him that he knew not how to approach 
her with a further prayer. And, had she not refused 
him, how could he have told her of his load of debt? 
As he stood at the comer where the lane runs into 
Lombard Street, he came for a while to think almost 
more of Lily than of his rejected bill. Then, as he 
thought of both his misfortunes together, he asked 
himself whether a pistol would not conveniently put 
an end to them together. 

At that moment a loud, harsh voice greeted his ear. 
"Hallo, Crosbie, what brings you so far east? One 
does not often see you in the City." It was the voice 
of Sir Baffle Buffle, which in former days had been 
very odious to Crosbie's ears; — for Sir Baffle Buffle 
had once been the presiding genius of the office to 
which Crosbie still belonged. 

"No, indeed, not very often," said Crosbie, smiling. 
Who can tell, who has not felt it, the pain that goes 
to the forcing of such smiles? But Sir Baffle was not 
an acutely observant person, and did not see that any-* 
thing was wrong. 

"I suppose you're doing a little business?" said 
Sir Baffle. "If a man has kept a trifle of money by 
him, this certainly is the time for turning it You 
have always been wide awake about such things." 

"No, indeed," said Crosbie. If he could only make 
up his mind that he would shoot himself, would it not 
be a pleasant thing to inflict some condign punishment 
on ibis odious man before he left the world? But 

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Crdi^ie k^# &a,t he was not going to shoot himself,' 
aad he knew also that Be had no power of inflicting 
condign piiniBhnient on Sir Baflfte Bufflei He could 
only hate the man, and corse him inwai^dly. 

"Ah, ha!" said Sir Raffle. "You wouldn't be hwe 
unless 70U' kiieTv^ wheite a good thing is to he picked 
upw But I nkust be off. I'm on the Bockj Mountain 
Canal Company Directory. I'm not above taking my 
two guinead a day. Gbod-by, my boy. R^nember 
me to old O^tin&i" And so Sir Ra^e passed on, 
leaving Crosbie still standing at the comer of the 

What was he to do? ;This inteimption had at least 
seined to dnro' Lily from his mind, and to ^tA his 
ideals h^ask to' the consideration of his pecuniary difE- 
cultieSk He thbught of h«3 own bank, a West-£nd 
establishihent* at which he was personally known to 
mauff of the) cterks, and where he heci been heretofore 
treated with great connnferation. But of late his 
balances had been very low, «dd more than dnce he 
had been leknin^ded that he had oveidrawn hk account 
He knew wdl< that the distinguii^ed finn of Bounce, 
Bounce', aAid Bounce,, would not cai^ a bill for him or 
lend hiih money without security. Me did not even 
dare to ask them to do so. 

On a^ sadden he jumped into a cab, and was driven 
back to his ofEce. A thought had conie upon him. 
He would throw himself upon ther kittjness of a friend 
there. Hitherto he had contrived to hold his head so 
high above ike clerks below Mmy so high befdre the 
Commistnoners who were above him, tliat notfe t&ette 
suspected Mm to be a man in dif^xdty. It ne^ seldoM 
ha^end^ that^ a- jtsLrUa chiiraetor staadv too high li^ IS0 

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llR. CB6l^BiB'€^0BS INTO THE CI^Y. 201 

interest, — so liigh dtat it oaniiot be maintained, and 
80 bigh that any ftdl will be dafigerons. And so it 
ima with Oosbie and his character at fihe General 
Committee Office. The man to whom he was now 
tidnking of applying as his friend, was a certain Mr. 
Bntterwell, who had been his predecessor in the secre- 
tai^y's chair, and who now filled the less onerous but 
more dignified poration of a Commissioner. Mr. Grosbie 
had somewhat despised Mr. Bntterwell, and had of late 
years not been averse to showing' that he did so. He 
had snubbed Mr. BtKterwell, and Mr. Butterwell, driven 
to his wits' ends, had tried a fall or two wil^ him. In 
all ^lese struggles C^osbie hscd' had the best of it, and 
Butterwell had gone to the wall. I^evertheless, for the 
si&e of official decency, and from> certain wise remem- 
brances of the' sources of offieiail comfbrt and official 
discomfort, Mr. Butterwell had always maintained a 
show of outward friendship with the secretary. They 
smiled and were gracious, cidled each other Butter- 
well and Crosbie, and abstained from all cat-and-dog 
absurdities. Nevertheless, it was the frequently ex- 
pressed^ opinion of every clerk in t&e office that Mr. 
BatOttPW^U/ hated Mr. Grosbie^ like poison. This was 
the man to whom Ct^osMe suddetdjr made up his mind' 
that ha weuM haTve vtfdoxm^. 

As he was driv^m^ back to his office he resolved 
tikat he wouM' make w pkAge a/b once at ^e difficulty. 
He knew that Bdtteim^l wi» fairly rich, tmd he knew 
abo l^at he wasr good-id»jtiii^^ -^ widi that sort of 
sleepy goodt-Aature wbkh vi not aetive>^ip philanthropic 
purposes, bQH whicb dislikes^ to< ineur tlie piiin of re- 
fining. And then Mzc Biitfcerwell was nervous, and if 
die thing wa» inM%€l4 w^, he< might be^ cheated' OtK^ 

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of an assent, before time bad been given bim in wbich 
to pluck up courage for refusing. But Crosbie doubted 
bis own courage also, — fearing tbat if be gave bim- 
self time for besitation be would besitate, and tbat, 
besitating, be would feel tbe terrible disgrace of the 
thing and not do it So, witbout going to bis own 
desk, or ridding bimself of bis bat, be went at once 
to Butterweirs room. Wben be opened tbe door, be 
found Mr. Butterwell alone, reading Tbe Times. 
"Butterwell," said be, beginning to speak before be 
bad even closed tbe door, "I bave come to you in 
great distress. I wonder wbetber you can belp me; I 
want you to lend me five bundred pounds? It must be 
for not less tban tbree montbs." 

Mr. Butterwell dropped tbe paper from bis bands, 
and stared at tbe secretary over bis spectacles. 


''I suppose I most let you have It.^ 

Crosbie bad been preparing tbe exact words with 
which he assailed Mr. Butterwell for the last quarter 
of 'an hour, before they were uttered. There is always 
a difficulty in tbe choice, not only of the words with 
which money should be borrowed, but of the fashion 
after which they should be spoken. There is the slow 
deliberate manner, in using wbich the borrower at- 
tempts to carry the wished-for lender along with bim 
by force of argument, and to prove that tbe desire to 
borrow shows no imprudence on bis own part, and that 
a tendency to lend will show none on the part of the 
intended lender. It may be said that ibis mode fails 



oftener than any other. There is the piteous manner, — 
the plea for commiseration. "My dear fellow, unless you 
'will see me through now, upon my word I shall be very 
badly off." And this manner may he divided again into 
two. There is the plea piteous with a lie, and the plea 
piteous with a truth. "You shall have it again in two 
months as sure as the sun rises." That is generally the 
plea piteous with a lie. Or it may be as follows: "It is 
only fair to say that I don't quite know when I can 
pay it back." This is the plea piteous with a truth, 
and upon the whole I think that this is generally the 
most successful mode of borrowing. And there is the 
assured demand, — which betokens a close intimacy. 
"Old fellow, can you let me have thirty pounds? No? 
Just put your name, then, on the back of this, and 1^1 
get it done in the City." The worst of that manner 
is, that the bill so often does not get itself done in the 
City. Then there is the sudden attack, — that being 
the manner to which Crosbie had recourse in the pre- 
sent instance. That there are other modes of borrow- 
ing by means of which youth becomes indebted to age, 
and love to respect, and ignorance to experience, is a 
matter of course. It will be understood that I am here 
speaking only of borrowing and lending between the. 
Butterwells and Crosbies of the world. "I have come 
to you in great distress," said Crosbie. "I wonder 
whether you can help me. I want you to lend me 
five hundbred pounds." Mr. Butterwell, when he heard 
the words, topped the paper which he was reading 
from his hand, and stared at Crosbie over his spectacles. 

"Five hundred pounds," he said. "Dear me, Cros- 
bie; that's a large sum of money." 

"Tes, it is, — a very large sum. Half that is 

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what I want at once; but I shall want the other hali 
in a month." 

"I thought that you were always so much above 
the world in money matters. Gracious me; — nothing 
that I haye heard for a long time has astonished me 
more. I don't know why, but I always thought that 
you had your things so very snug." 

Crosbie was aware that he had made one very great 
step towmrds success. The idea had been presented to 
Mr. Butterwell's mind, and had not been instantly re- 
jected as a scandalously iniquitous idea, as an idea to 
which no reception coidd be given for a momeut. 
Crosbie had not been treated as was the needy knife- 
grinder, and had ground to stand upon while he urged 
his request. '^I have been so pressed since my mar- 
riage," he said, "that it has been impossible for me to 
keep things straight" 

"But Lady Alexandrina " 

"Yes; of course; I know. I do not like to trouble 
you with my private affairs; — there is nothing, I 
think, so bad ^ washing one's dirty liuen in public; 
— but the truth is, that I am only now free from the 
rapacity of the De Courcys. You would hardly believe 
me if I told you what I've had to pay. What do you 
think of two hundred and forty-five pounds for bring- 
ing her body over here, and burying it at De Courcy. 

*I'd have left it where it was." 

"And so would I. You don't suppose I ordered it 
to be done. Poor dear thing. If it could do her any 
good, God knows I would not begrudge it We had 
a bad time of it when we were together, but I would 
have spiu:^d nothing for her, alive or dead, that was 
reasonable. But to make me pay for bringing the 

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"l «9FP0SB I Vmt LBT TOO HAVB It/* 205 

body oTm* here, wlien I never had a Bhilling with her! 
By G^eox^, it was too bad. A&d <liat oaf John De 
Cwircy, I had to pay lus travelling \All too." 

"He didn't come to be buried; — did he?" 

"It's too disgusting to talk of, Butterweiij; it k 
indeed. And when I asked lor h^ money that was 
settled upon neie, — it was oaly two thousand pounds, 
— they made zae go to law, and it seems th^e was no 
two thousand pounds to settle. If I like, I ean have 
another lawjsiat with die listers, when the mother is 
dead. Ctti, Butterwell, I hiM^e made such a fool of my- 
self. I baiTe >eome to^ueh shipwreck! Oh, Butterwell, 
if yo<n coidd but know it aU." 

"Are you &ee firom the De Courcys now?" 

"I owe Gazd^ee, tlie man who married the oUier 
woman, over a thousand pounds. But I pay that off 
at two hundred a year, and he h«^ a s^o^cy on my 

"What do you owe that for?" 

"Don't ask me. Not that I mind telling you; — 
furniture, and the lease of a house, ajad his biU for the 
marriage settlement, — d him." 

"God Jblees me. They seem to have been very 
hard upop you." 

"A man doesn't marry an earl's daughter for no- 
thing, Butterwell. And then to think what I lost! It 
can't be helped now, you know. As a man makes his 
bed he must lie on it I am sometimes so mad with 
myself when I think over it all , — that I should like 
to blow my brains out." 

"You must not talk in that way, Orosbie. I hate 
to hear a man talk like that." 

"I don't mean th&t I shalL I'm too jmuch of a 

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206 THB JjA&t chboniclb of babsbt. 

coward, I fancy." A man who desires to soften anr 
other man^s heart, should always ahuse himselfl In 
softening a woman's heart, he should abuse her. "But 
life has been so bitter with me for the last three years! 
I haven't had an hour of comfort; — not an hour. I 
don't know why I should trouble you with all this, 
ButterwelL Oh, — about the money; yes; that's just 
how I stand. I owed Gazebee something over a thou- 
sand pounds, which is arranged as I have told you. 
Then there were debts, due by my wife, — at least 
some of them were, I suppose, — and that horrid, 
ghastly ftmeral, — and debts, I don't doubt, due by 
the cursed old countess. At any rate, to get myse^ 
clear I raised something over four hundred pounds, 
and now I owe five which must be paid, part to-mor- 
row, and the remainder this day month.'* 

"And you've no security?" 

"Not a rag, not a shred, not a line, not an acre. 
There's my salary, and after paying Gazebee what 
comes due to him, I can manage to let you have the 
money within twelve months, — that is, if you can 
lend it me. I can just do that and live; and if you 
will assist me with the money, I will do so. That's 
what I've brought myself to by my own folly." 

"Five hundred pounds is such a large sum of 

"Indeed it is." 

"And without any security!" 

"I know, Butterwell, that Tve no right to ask for 
it. I feel that Of course I should pay you what in- 
terest you please." 

"Money's about seven now," said ButterwelL 

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^'IVe not the slightest objection to seven per cent./* 
said Crosbie. 

"Bnt that*s on security," said Butterwell. 

"Yon can name your own terms," said Crosbie. 

Mr. Butterwell got out of his chair, and walked 
about the room with his hands in his pockets. He was 
thinking at that moment what Mrs. Butterwell would 
say to him. *^Will an answer do to-morrow morning?" 
he said. ^^I would much rather have it to-day," said 
Crosbie. Then Mr. Butterwell took another turn 
about the room. ^^I suppose I must let you have it," 
he said. 

^* Butterwell," said Crosbie, ^Tm eternally obliged 
to you. It^s hardly too much to say that youVe saved 
me from ruin." 

"Of course I was joking about interest," said 
Butterwell. "Five per cent is the proper thing. You^d 
better let me have a little acknowledgment Til give 
you the first half to-morrow." 

They were genuine tears which filled Crosbie's 
eyes, as he seized hold of the senior^s hands. "Butter- 
well," he said, "what am I to say to you?" 

"Nothing at aU, — nothing at all." 

"Your kindness makes me feel that I ought not to 
have come to you." 

"Oh, nonsense. By-the-by, would you mind telling 
Thompson to bring those papers to me which I gave 
him yesterday? I promised Optimist I would read, 
them before Uuree, and it's past two now." So saying 
he sat himself down at his table, and Crosbie felt that 
he was bound to leave the room. 

Mr. Butterwell, when he was left alone, did not 
read the papers which Thompson brought him*, but sat, 

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20S THE LAST. CHEOlflCIIiil 0T B^^^HWT. 

instead, thmking ^rf Ai$ fi6^ »lmp&^ tpi«wi<ip. **Jtist 
put them down," he said to Thompson. So tibe papers 
were put dowm #aid Ibere ^tbcgr ifij aU that day and 
all the next Then TShofflapson »toofc Aem away again, 
and it ip to 1)6 fevped tl^t fpmobedy r^ them. Five 
hundred pouads! It was a, huge mm of money, and 
Croabie was a mm for mhorn. Mr. iBntterwell in itruth 
felt ,no very stroog ,ftflfe^«ft. "Of course he must 
haye it now," he said)to ibimsetf. "Bnt where should 
I be tf anything haKP©»«d to haio?" And tibuen he 
remembered ^at Mrs. Bii*tfinweU especially disliked 
Mr. Crosbie, *— disliked him because she knew that he 
snubbed her hushwod. -"fi»t it'B Jbard to reftiae, when 
one man has known ano^r ifor fnore than ten yea^s," 
Then he comforted himself somewkat with the reflec- 
tion, that Crosbie would no dosbt make thimaelf more 
pleasant for the '^tiure 4ihasi he jbsad done lately, «ad 
with a. second reflection, that Croabie's life wvs a>good 
life, — and with a thirds as to his own greal; good- 
ness, in assiBting a /brother of&oer. Nevertheless, as 
he sat looldng out .of the omnibus-window, .o» his 
journey home )to Putney, he maB not altogether (Com- 
fortable in his mind. Mrs. Butterwell was ^ very 
prudent woman. 

But Crosbie was very comfortable in his SEUAd e^ 
iiiAtf9.&ma»<m. He had ^hasdly dared to ho^e for sue- 
ioess, but (be ittA )been aupoiesflil. He had not <«ren 
tiboiagfat<of BnttenweU as a possible fountain ifif: supply, 
UU ^s 4nind ^had >been ibrought back to the.affaftrs of 
his office, % /the vodoe x)f Sir Baffle Baffle j«t the 
comer of the street. ^b». idea that his .biU woKild be 
dbhonoured, and .thai tidings of his insobieiicy would 
be jaonyeyed io idne^ Coiiq^DtdsdionMB lit ^ iB^ hstd 

Digitized by VjOOQIC 

LitT DAL^ QOBS TO L0NI>01|. 30d 

been dreadful ta him. The wBy in which he had 
been treated hj Musselboro and Dobbft Bromghton had 
made him hate City men, and what he supposed to be 
City waysw Now there had come ta him a relief which 
suddenly made everything feel light He could almost 
think of Mr. Mortimer Gazebee without disgust Per- 
haps after all there mig^t be some happiness yet in 
store foar him. Might it not be possible that Lily 
would yet accept him in spite of the chilling letter, — 
the freezing letter which he had received from Lily^s 
mother? Of one thing he was quite certain. If ever 
he had an opportunity of pleading his own cause with 
her, he certainly would teU her evwything respecting 
his own money difficulties. 

In that last resolve I think we may say that he 
was right If Lily would ever Msten to him again at 
all, she ei^rtainly would not be deterred from marrying 
him by bis own story of his debts. 


Lily Dale goes to London. 

One morning towards the end of March the squire 
rapped at the window of the drawing-room of the Small 
House, in whi^h Mrs. Dale and her daughter were sit- 
ting. He had a letter in his hand, and bptb Lily and 
ber mother knew that he had come down to speak 
about the contents of the letter. It was always a sign 
of good-humour on the sqtdre*s part, this rapping at 
the window. Wh^i it became necessary to him in his 
gloomy moods to see Im sister-in-law, he would write 
a note to heri and she would go across to him at the 
Ghreat House. At <^er times, if, as Lily would say, 

Th$ Laa Okronkk qf Barsit U, 14^ i 

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he was just then neither sweet nor bitter, he would go 
round to the front door and knock, and be admitted 
after the manner of ordinary people; but when he was 
minded to make himself thoroughly pleasant he would 
come and rap at the drawing-room window, as he was 
doing now. 

"I'll let you in, uncle; wait a moment," said Lily, as 
she unbolted the window which opened out upon the lawn. 
"It's dreadfully cold, so come in as fast as you can.'* 

"It's not cold at all," said the squire. "It's more 
like spring than any morning we've had yet. I've 
been sitting without a fire." 

"You won't catch us without one for the next two 
months; wiU he, mamma? You have got a letter, 
uncle. Is it for us to see?" 

"Well, — yes; I've brought it down to show you. 
Mary, what do you think is going to happen?" 

"A terrible idea occurred to Mrs. Dale at that 
moment, but she was much too wise to give it expres- 
sion. Could it be possible that the squire was going 
to make a fool of himself and get married? "I ann 
very bad at guessing," said Mrs. Dale. "You had 
better tell us." 

"Bernard is going to be married," said Lily. 

"How did you know?" said the squire. 

"I didn't know. I only guessed." 

"Then you've guessed right," said the squire, a little 
annoyed at having his news thus taken out of his mouth. 

"I am so glad," said Mrs. Dale; "and I know 
from your manner that you like the match." 

"Well, — yes. I don't know the young lady, but 
I think that upon the whole I do like it. "It's quite 
ttime, you know, that he got married*" 

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"He's not thirty yet," said Mrs. Dale. 

"He will be, in a month or two." 

"And who is it, uncle?" 

"Well; — as you're so good at guessing, I suppose 
you can guess that?" 

"It's not that Miss Partridge he used to talk 

"No; it's not Miss Partridge, — ■ I'm glad to say. 
I don't believe that the Partridges haye a shilling 
among them." 

"Then I suppose it's an heiress?" said Mrs. Dale. 

"No; not an heiress; but she will haye some money 
of her own. And she has connexions in Barsetshire, 
which makes it pleasant" 

"Connexions in Barsetshire! Who can it be?" 
said Lily. 

"Her name is Emily Dunstable," said the squire, 
"and she is the niece of that Miss Dunstable who 
married Dr. Thome and who lives at Ghaldicotes." 

"She was the woman who had millions upon mil- 
lions," said Lily, "all got by selling ointment." 

"Never mind how it was got," said the squire, 
angrily. "Miss Dunstable married most respectably, 
and has always made a most excellent use of her 

"And will Bernard's wife have all her fortune?" 
asked Lily. 

"She will have twenty thousand pounds the day 
she marries, and I suppose that will be all." 

"And quite enough, too," said Mrs. Dale. 

"It seems that old Dr. Dunstable, as he was called, 
who, as Lily says, sold the ointment, quarrelled with 
his son or with his son's widow, and left nothing either 


to ber or her child. The mother is dead, and the 
aunt, Dr. Thome's wife, has always provided for the 
child. That's how it is, and Bernard is going to 
marry her. They are to be married at Chaldicotes in 

"I am delighted to hear it," said Mrs. Dale. 

"IVe known Dr. Thome for the last forty years;" 
and the squire now spoke in a low melancholy tone. 
"IVe written to him to say that the yonng people 
shall have the old place up ^ere to themselves if th^ 
like it." 

"What! and turn you out?" said Mrs. Dale. 

"That wonld not matter," said the squire. 

"You'd have to come and live with us," said Lily, 
taking him by the hand. 

"It doesn't matter much now where I live," said 
the squire. 

"Bemard will never consent to that," said Mrs. Dale. 

"I wonder whether she'll ask me to be a brides- 
maid?" said Lily. "They say that Chaldicotes is such 
a pretty place, and I should see all the Barsetshire 
people that I've been hearing about from Grace. Poor 
Grace I I know that the Grantlys and the Thomee 
are very intimate. Fancy Bemard haviug twenty thou- 
sand pounds from the making of ointment!" 

"What does it matter to you where it comes from?" 
said the squire, half in anger. 

"Not in the least; only it sounds so odd. I do 
hope she's a nice girl." 

Then the squire produced a photograph of Emily 
Dunstable which his nephew had sent to hka, and they 
all pronounced bear to be very pretty, to be very much 
like a lady, and to be very good-humoured. The 

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TfMiY VMM aom TO LONDON. 213 

Squire waa evidetitly pleased wtth ^e matdi, and there* 
fore the ladles were pleased also. Bernard Dale was 
the heir to the estate, and his marriage was of colirse 
a matter of momeilt; and as on. such properties as that 
of AllingtoQ money is always wanted, the squire may 
be forgiven for the great importance which he attached 
to the young lady's fortune. "Bernard could hardly 
have married prudently without any money,'' hd said, 
— "unless he had chosen to wait till I am gone." 

"And then he would have been too old to marry 
at all," said Lily. 

But the squire's budget of news had not yet be^ 
emptied. He told them soon afterwards that he him- 
self had been summoned up to London. Bernard had 
written to him, begging him to come and see the young 
lady; and the family biwyer had written also, saying 
that his presence in town would be very desirable. 
"It is very troublesome, of course; but I shall go," 
said the squire. "It will do you all the good in the 
world," said Mrs. Dale; "and of course you ought to 
know her personally before the marriage." And then 
the squire made a clean breast of it and declared his 
full purpose. "I was thinking that, perhaps, Lily 
would not ol\jeot to go up to London widi me." 

"Oh^ U2i^ Christopher, I should «o like it," said 

"If your mamma does not object" 

"Mamma never objects to anything. I should like 
to see her oliijecting to that!" And Lily shook her 
head at ber mother* 

"Ber»«rd says that Miss Dunstable particularly 
wants to see you." 

"Does sbO) indeed? And I particularly want to 

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see Miss Dunstable. How nice! Mamma, I donH 
think I've ever been in London since I wore short 
frocks. Do you remember taking us to the pantomime? 
Only think how many years ago that is. I'm quite 
sure it's time that Bernard should get married. Uncle, 
I hope you're prepared to take me to the play." 

"We must see about that!" 

"And the opera, and Madame Tussaud, and the 
Horticultural Gardens, and the new conjuror who makes 
a woman lie upon nothing. The idea of my going to 
London! And then I suppose I shall be one of the 
bridesmaids. I declare a new vista of life is opening 
out to me! Mamma, you mustn't be dull while I'm 
away. It won't be very long, I suppose, uncle? 

"About a month, probably," said the squire. 

"Oh, mamma; what will you do?" 

"Never mind me, Lily." 

"You must get Bell and the children to come. But 
I cannot imagine living away from home a month. I 
was never away from home a month in my life." 

And Lily did go up to town with her uncle, two 
days only having been allowed to her for her prepara- 
tions. There was very much for her to think of in 
such a journey. It was not only that she would see 
Emily Dunstable who was to be her comnn's wife, and 
that she would go to the play and visit the new con- 
juror's entertainment, but that she would be in the 
same city both with Adolphns Crosbie and with 
John Eames. Not having personal experience of the 
wideness of London, and of the wilderness which it is ; 
— of the distance which is set there between persons 
who are not purposely brought together — it seemed 
to her fancy as though for this mondi of her absence 

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from home she would be brought into close contiguity 
with both her lovers. She had hitherto felt herself to 
be at any rate safe in her fortress at AUington. When 
Crosbie had written to her mother, making a renewed 
o£Eer which had been rejected, Lily had felt that she 
certainly need not see him unless it pleased her to do 
80. He could hardly force himself upon her at Ailing- 
ton. And as to John Eames, though he would, of 
course, be welcome at Allington as often as he pleased 
to show himself, still there was a security in the place. 
She was so much at home there that she could always 
be mistress of the occasion. She knew that she could 
talk to him at Allington as though from ground higher 
than that on which he stood himself ; but she felt that 
this would hardly be the case if she should chance to 
meet him in London. Crosbie probably would not 
come in her way. Crosbie she tiiought, — and she 
blushed for the man she loved, as the idea came across 
her mind, — would be afraid of meeting her uncle. 
But John Eames would certainly find her; and she 
was led by the experience of latter days to imagine 
that John would never cross her path without renewing 
his attempts. 

But she said no word of all this, even to her 
mother. She was contented to confine her outspoken 
expectations to Emily Dunstable, and the play, and the 
conjuror. '* The 'changes are ten to one against my 
liking her, mamma," she said. 

"I don't see that, my dear," 

"I feel to be too old to think that I shall ever like 
any more new people. Three years ago I should have 
been quite sure that I should love a new cousin. It 
would have been like having a new dress. Bi|t I've 

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come to tbink tliat an old dress is the most comfort- 
able, and an old cousin certainly die best*^ 

The squire had had taken for them a gloomy lodg- 
ing in Sackville Street. Lodgings in London are always 
gloomy. Gloomy colours wear bettar than Inight ones 
for curtains and carpets, and the keepers of lodgings 
in London seem to think that a certain dinginess of 
appearance is respectable. I never saw a London 
lodging in which any attempt at eheerfolness had been 
made, and I do not think that any such attempt, if 
made, would pay. Tlie lodging-seekw would be 
frightened and dismayed, and would unconsciously be 
led to fancy that something was wrong. Ideas of 
burglars and improper persons would present them- 
selves. This is so certainly the case that I doubt 
whether any well-conditioned lodging-bouse matron 
could be induced to show rooms that were prettily 
draped or pleasantly coloured. The big drawing-room 
and two large bedrooms which the squire took, were 
all that was proper, and were as brown, and as gloomy, 
a»d as ill-suited for the comforts of ordinaiy life as 
Hiough tiiey had heea prepared for two prisoners. But 
Lily was not so ignorant as to expect cheerful lod^ngs 
in London, and was satisfied. ^*And what are we to 
do now?" said Lily, as soon as they found themselves 
settled. It was still March, and whatever may have 
been the nature of the weather at Allington, it was 
very cold in London. They reached Sae^vitte Street 
about five in the evening, and an hour was taken up 
in unpacking their trunks and making themselves as 
comfortable as their oircumstances allowed. "Anid now 
what are we to do?" said Lily. 

^*I ^Idilimtt to hAve dinner £^ us at half-past six." 

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"And what after that? Wijn't Bernard come to us 
to-night? I expected him to he standing on the door* 
dteps waiting for ns with his hride in his hand/' 

"I don't suppose Bernard will he here to-night," 
said the squire. ^^He did sot saj that he would, and 
as for Miss Dunstahle, I promised to take you to her 
aunt's house to-morrow." 

"But I wanted to see her to-night Well; — of 
course hridesmaids must wait upon hrides. And ladies 
with twenty thousand pounds can't he expected to run 
ahout like common people. As for Bernard, — hut 
Bernard never was in a hurry." Then they dined, and 
when the squire had very nearly fallen asleep over a 
hottle of port wine which had been sent in for him 
from some neighbouring public-house, Lily began to 
feel that it was very dull. And she looked round the 
room, and she thought that it was very ugly. And 
she calculated that thirty evenings so spent would seem 
to be very long. And she reflected that the hours 
were probably going much more quickly with Emily 
Dunstable, whO| no doubt, at this moment had Bernard 
Dale by her side. And then she told heraelf that the 
hours were not tedious with her at home, while sitting 
with her mother, with aU her daily occupations within 
her reach. But in so telling herself she took herself 
to task, inquiring of herself whether such an assurance 
was altogether true. Were not the hours sometimes 
tedious even at home? And in this way her mind 
wandered off to thoughts upon life in general, and she 
repeated to herself over and over again the two words 
which she had told John Eames that she would write 
in her journal. Thie reader will remember those two 
words-, -^ Old Maid, And «ho had written them in 

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her book, making each letter a capital, and ronnd 
them she had ^ drawn a scroll, ornamented after her 
own fashion, and she had added the date in quaintly 
formed figures, — for in such matters Lily had some 
little skill and a dash of ftin to direct it; and she had 
inscribed below it an Italian motto, — "Who goes 
softly, goes safely;" and above her work of art she 
had put a heading — "As arranged by Fate for L. D." 
Now she thought of all this, and reflected whether 
Emily Dunstable was in truth very happy. Presently 
the tears came into her eyes, and she got up and went 
to the window, as though she were afraid that her 
uncle might wake and see them. And as she looked 
out on the blank street, she muttered a word or two — 
"Dear mother! Dearest motlier!" Then the door was 
opened, and her cousin Bernard announced himself. 
She had not heard his knock at the door as she had 
been thinking of the two words in her book. 

"What; Bernard! — ah, yes, of course," said the 
squire, rubbing his eyes as he strove to wake himself. 
"I wasn't sure you would come, but Tm delighted to 
see you. I wish you joy with all my heart, — with 
all my heart." 

"Of course I should come," said Bernard. "Dear 
Lily, this is so good of you. Emily is so delighted.** 
Then Lily spoke her congratulations warmly, and there 
was no trace of a tear in her eyes, and she was 
thoroughly happy as she sat by her cousin's side and 
listened to his raptures about Emily Dunstable. "And 
you will be so fond of her aunt," he said. 

"But is she not awftdly rich?" said Lily. 

"Prightftilly rich," said Bernard; *^but really you 
would hardly find it out if nobody told you. Of course 

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she lives in a big house, and has a heap of servants-, 
but she can't help that" 

"I hate a heap of servants," said Lily. 

Then there came another knock at the door, and 
who should enter the room bat John Eames. Lily for 
a moment was taken aback, bat it was only for a 
moment. She had been thinking so much of him that 
his presence distarbed her for an instant "He pro- 
bably will not know that I am here," she had said to 
herself; bat she had not yet been three hours in Lon- 
don, and he was already with her! At first he hardly 
spoke to her, addressing himself to the squire. "Lady 
Julia told me you were to be here, and as I start for 
the Continent early to-morrow morning, I thought you 
would let me come and see you before I went" 

"rm always glad to see you, John," said the squire, 
— "very glad. And so you're going abroad, are you?" 

Then Johnny congratulated his old acquaintance, 
Bernard Dale, as to his coming marriage, and explained 
to them how Lady Julia in one of her letters had told 
him all about it, and had even given him the number 
in Sackville Street. "I suppose she learned it from 
you, Lily," said the squire. "Yes, uncle, she did." 
And then there came questions as to John's projected 
journey to the Continent, and he explained that he was 
going on law-business, on behalf of Mr. Crawley, to 
catch the dean and Mrs. Arabin, if it might be possible. 
"You see, sir, Mr. Toogood, who is Mr. Crawley's 
cousin, and also his lawyer, is my cousin, too; and 
that's why I'm going." And still there had been hardly 
a word, spoken between him and Lily. 

"But you're not a lawyer, John; are you?" said 
the squire. 

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"No. I'm not a lawyer myself." 

"Nor a lawyer's clerk." 

"Certainly not a lawyer's clerk," said Johnny, 

"Then why should you go?" asked Bernard Dale. 

Then Johnny had to explain; and in doing so he 
became very eloquent as to the hardships of Mr. 
Crawley's case. "Tou see, sir, nobody can possibly 
believe that such a man as that stole twenty pounds." 

"I do not for one," said Lily. 

"God forbid that I should say he did," said the 

"I'm quite sure he didn't," said Johnny, wanoaing 
to his subject "It couldn't be that such a man as that 
should become a thief all at once. It's not human na- 
ture, sir; is it?" 

"It is very hard to know what is human nature,'' 
said the squire. 

"It's die general opinion down in Barsetshire that 
he did steal it," said Bernard. "Dr. Thome was one 
of the magistrates who committed him, and I know he 
thinks so." 

"I don't blame the magistrates in the least," said 

"That's kind of you," said the squire. 

"Of course you'll laugh at me, sir; but you'll see 
that we shall come out right There's some mystery 
in it of which we haven't got at the bottom as yet; 
and if there is anybody that can help us it's the 

"If the dean knows anything, why has he not 
written and told what he knows?" said the squire. 

"That's what I can't say. The dean has not had 

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an opporfconity of writmg since he heard, — even if 
he has yet heard, — that Mr. Crawley is to he tried. 
And then he and Mrs. Arahin are not together. It^s a 
long story y and I will not tronhle you with it all; but 
at any rate I^m going off to-morrow. Lily, can I do 
anything for you in Florence?" 

"In Florence?" said Lily; "and are you really 
going to Florence? How I envy you." 

"And who pays your expenses?" Btdd the squire. 

"Well; — as to my expenses, they are to he paid 
by a person who won't raise any unpleasant questions 
about the amount." 

"I don't know what you mean," said the squire. 

"He means himself," said Lily. 

"Is he going to do it out of his own pocket?" 

"He is," said Lily, looking at her lover. 

"I'm going to have a trip for my own fun," said 
Johnny, "and I shall pick up evidence on the road, 
as I'm going; — that's all." 

Then Lily began to take an active part in the con- 
versation, and a great deal was said about Mr. Crawley, 
and about Grace, and Lily declared that she would be 
very anxious to hear any news which John Eames 
might be able to send. "You know, John, how fond 
we are of your cousin Ghnu^e, at Allington? Are we 
not, uncle?" 

"Yes, indeed," said the squire. "I thought her a 
very nice girl." 

"If you should be able to learn anything that may 
be of use, John, how happy you will be." 

"Yes, I shall," said Johnny. 

"And I think it so good of you to go, John. But 
it is just like you. You were always generous." Soon 

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after that he got up and went. It was very clear to 
him that he would have no moment in which to say a 
word alone to Lily; and if he could find such a mo- 
ment, what good would such a word do him? It was 
as yet but a few weeks since she had positively re- 
fused him. And he too remembered very well those 
two words which she had told him that she would write 
in her book. As he. had been coming to the house he 
had told himself that his coming would be, — could 
be of no use. And yet he was disappointed with the 
result of his visit, although she had spoken to him so 

"I suppose you'll be gone when I come back?" he 

'^We shall be here a month," said the squire. 

^^I shall be back long before that, I hope," said 
Johnny. "Good-by, sir. 6ood-by, Dale. Good-by, 
Lily." And he put out his hand to her. 

"Good-by, John." And then she added, almost in 
a whisper, "I think you are very, very right to go." 
How could he fail after that to hope as he waU^ed 
home that she might still relent. And she also thought 
much of him , but her thoughts of him made her cling 
more firmly than ever to the two words. She could 
not bring herself to marry him; but, at least, she would 
not break his heart by becoming the wife of any one 
else. Soon after this Bernard Dale went also. I am 
not sure that he had been well pleased at seeing John 
Eames become suddenly the hero of the hour. When 
a young man is going to perform so important an act 
as that of marriage, he is apt to think that he ought 
to be the hero of the hour himself — at any rate 
among his own family. 

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Early on the next morning Lily was taken by her 
tmcle to call upon Mrs. Thome, and to see Emily 
Dunstable. Bernard was to meet them there, but it 
had been arranged that they should reach the house 
first. ^^ There is nothing so absurd as these introduc- 
tions," Bernard had said. *^You go and look at her, 
and when youVe had time to look at her, then Pll 
come!" So the squire and Lily went off to look at 
Emily Dunstable. 

*^You don't mean to say that she lives in that 
house?" said Lily, when the cab was stopped before 
an enormous mansion in one of the most fashionable of 
the London squares. 

"I believe she does," said the squire. 

"I never shall be able to speak to anybody living 
in such a house as that;," sidd Lily. "A duke couldn't 
have anything grander." 

"Mrs. Thome is richer than half the dukes," said 
the squire. Then the door was opened by a porter, 
and Lily found herself within the hall. Everything 
was very great, and very magnificent, and, as she 
thought, very uncomfortable. Presently she heard a 
loud jovial voice on the stairs. "Mr. Dale, I*m de- 
lighted to see you. And this is your niece Lily. Come 
up, my dear. There is a young woman upstairs, dying 
to embrace you. Never mind the umbrella. Put it 
down anywhere. I want to have a look at you, be- 
cause Bernard swears that you're so pretty." This was 
Mrs. Thome, once Miss Dunstable, the richest woman 
in England, and the aunt of Bernard's bride. The 
reader may perhaps remember the advice which sh^ 
once gave to Major Grantly, and her enthusiasm on 
that occasion. '^ There she is, Mr. Dale^ what do you 

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224 THE LiJST CHBOHtCtfi: 09 dAtUSlt. 

think of her?'' said Mrs. Thome, as she opeaied the 
door of a small sitting-room wddged in between two 
large saloons, in whioh Emily Dunstable was sitting. 

^^Annt Marthib, Ww ean jou be so ridicolous?'' 
said the young lady. 

^^I suppose it is ridiculous to ask the question to 
which one really wants to have an answer/' said Mrs. 
Thome. "But Mr. Dale has, in tmth, come to in- 
spect you, and to form an opinion; and, in honest truth, 
I shall be rery anxious to know what he thinks, — 
though, of course, he won't tell me." 

The old mA» took the gifl in his arms, and kissed 
her on both cheeks. "I have no doubt yout'U find <mt 
what I think," Jbe said, ^* though I should never tell 

"I general^ do find out what people think »" she 
said. "And so you're Lily Dale?" 

"Yes, Vm Lily DaJk" 

"I have so od^n heard of you, particularly of late; 
for you must know that a certain Major Grantly is a 
friend of mine. We must take care that that affair 
comes off all right, must we not?" 

"I hope it wm." Then Lily turned to Emily 
Dunstable, a^d, taking her hand, went up and sat be- 
side her, while Mrs. Thome and the squire talked of 
the coming marriage. "How long have you been en- 
gaged?'' said Lily. 

"Beally engaged^ about three weeks. I think k is 
not more dian three weeks ago." 

"Hew vwy discreet Bernard has been. He never 
told us a word about it while it was going on." 

"Men never do tell, I suppose/' said Emily 

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"Of course yon love him very dearly?" said Lily, 
Bot knowing wliat else to say. 

"Of conrsel do." 

"So do we. You know he's almost a brother to us; 
that is, to me and my sister. We nevoid had a brother 
of our own." And so the morning was passed till 
Lily was told by l^fr uncle to come away, and was 
told also by Mrs. Th<mie that she was to dine with 
them in the square on that day. "You must not be 
surprised that my husband is not here," she said. "He 
is a very odd sort of man, and he never comes to Lon- 
don if he can help it." 


The Bayawater Romance. 

Eahbs had by no means done his work for that 
evening when he left Mr. Dalei and Lily at their 
lodgings. He had other business on hand to which he 
had promised to give attention, and another person to 
see who would welcome his <;oming quite as warmly, 
though by no means as pleasantly , as Lily Dale. It 
w^as then just nine o^clock, and as he had told Miss 
Demolines, — Madalina we may as well call her now, 
— that he would be in Porchester Terrace by nine at 
the^ latest, it was incumbent on him to make haste. He 
got into a cab, and bid the cabman drive hard, and 
lighting a cigar, began to inquire of himself whether it 
was well' fbr him to hurry away firom the presence of 
Lily Dale to that of Madalina Demolines. He felt 
that he was half*ashamed of what he was doing. 
Though he declared to himself over and over again 
Th« Last Clhr<miok of BarnU 12. 15^ r 

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226 THB iiAfiKv owmmeyii oc qambt. 

i^t bj9 never h«d wA « word, and iieYer intended to 
say a word, to Madalinay wliich all ihe wodcl migkt 
not hear, yet he knew that he was doing amks. He 
:i|§s doijp^ fm9fiy md hall repented it, and yet he was 
1^ {ffo^d <^^ ]?« was 9io0t anxions to be abk to 
give, l^m^li ^ledit for his conaUmoy to Lily Dtla; to 
1^ aU^ Uk fofJ ^at ]»9 WM steadfast in his passion; 
m4 7^ be Uked the idea of avuMing himself with his 
l^:sm^i^ i^oinance, a9 be nfoold call it, and waA not 
W^o^ something of ocmoeit w he thought of the pro- 
gi^^ he bad made in it ^^Iiove is one thing and 
amusement is another,'' he said to. himself as he puffed 
the cigar-smoke out of his mouth; and in his heart he 
was proud of his own capadty for enjoyment He 
thought it a fine thi|ig, ii^t^i^ ait the same moment 
he fcaew it to be an evil thing — this hurrying away 
from the young lady whom he really loved to another 
afi( to whom he thought it very likely that he should 
be called upon tp pretend to hove her. And he sang 
a little song ^ he we^ft, "If she be not fair for me, 
what care X bpw £w she be**' That was intended to 
apply to Lil^, and was i^ed as an excuse for his 
fickleipuesp in going tq Mlfi^ Bemolines. And be was, 
perhaps, toot, & little conceited as to his mission to the 
Contipe^tt Lily had told him that she was very glad 
that h^ was goi^g; that she thought him very right to 
go. Tb^ words bad be^ pleasant to his ears, and 
Lily b^ nev^r looked prettier in bis eyes Uian when 
she bM ppokon them. Johnny > therefore, was rather 
proud of himself a3 he sat in the cab smoking his 
cigar. He had, moreover, beaten bis old enemy 8ir 
Baffle Buffle in another contest, and he felt that the 
world wsjsi smiling on Ww; — tba*i the world was sail- 
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in^ on him in spits of kts ontd fate in the matter of 
his real loresait 

There was a mysterj about the Bayswater romance 
which was not without its allorem/ent, and a portion of 
the mystery was connected with Madalina*s mother. 
Lady Demolines was very rarely seen, and John 
Eames could not quite understand what was the man- 
ner of life of that un&rtnnate lady. Her daughter 
usually spoke of her with affectionate regret as being 
unable to appear on that partieular occasion on account 
of some passing quJady. She was suffering &om a 
nervous headache, or was affticted with bronchitis, or 
had been touched with rheumatism, so that she was 
seldom on the scene when Johnny was passing his 
time at PoreheBter T^riMse, And yet he heard of her 
dining out, and going to plays amd operas; and when 
lie did chance to see her, he found that she was a 
[^rightly old woman enough. I will not venture to 
say that he much regretted the absence of Lady De- 
molines, or that he was keenly alive to the impropriety 
of being left alone with the gentle Madalina; but the 
e«stomary absence of the elder lady was an incident 
in the romance which did not fail to strike him. 

Madalina was alone when he was shown up into 
the drawing-room on the evei|ii\g of which we are 

"Mr. Eiunes," she said, "will you kindly look at 
that watch which is lying on the table." She looked 
fall at him with her great eyes wide open, and the 
tone of her voice was intended to show him that she 
was aggrieved. 

''Yes, I see it," said Joha, looking down on Miss 
Pemolines' Ul^le gold JGhsneva watch, with which be 


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had already made soMcient acquaintance to know tbat 
it was worth nothing. "Shall I give it you?" 

"No, Mr. Eames; let it remain there, that it may 
remind me, if it does not remind you, by how long a 
time you have broken your word." 

"Upon my word I couldn't help it; — upon my 
honour I couldn't." 

"Upon your honour, Mr. Eames!" 

"I was obliged to go and see a Mend who has 
just come to town from my part of the country." 

"That is the friend, I suppose, of whom I have 
heard from Maria." It is to be feared that Conway 
Dalrymple had not been so guarded as he should have 
been in some of his conversations with Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton, and that a word or two had escaped from 
him as to the love of John Eames for Lily Dale. 

"I don't know what you may have heard," said 
Johnny, "but I was obliged to see these people before 
I left town. There is going to be a marriage and all 
that sort of thing." 

"Who is going to be married?" 

"One Captain Dale is going to be married to one 
Miss Dunstable." 

"Oh! And as to one Miss Lily Dale, — is she to 
be married to anybody?" 

"Not that I have heard of," said Johnny. 

"She is not going to become the wife of one Mr. 
John Eames?" 

He did not wish to talk to Miss Demolines about 
Lily Dale. He did not choose to disown the imputa- 
tion, or to acknowledge its truth. 

"Silence gives consent," she said. "If it be so, I 
congratulate you. I have no doubt she is a most 

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-eharming young woman. It is about seven years, I 
believe, since that little affair with Mr. Crosbie, and 
therefore that, I suppose, may be considered as for- 

"It is only three years," said Johnny, angrily. 
"Besides, I don't know what that has to do with it." 

"You need not be ashamed," said Madalina. '*I 
have heard how well you behaved on that occasion. 
You were quite the preux chevalier; and if any gen- 
tleman ever deserved well of a lady you deserved well 
of her. I wonder how Mr. Crosbie felt when he met 
you the other day at Marians. I had not heard any- 
thing about it then, or I should have been much more 
interested in watching your meeting." 
"I really can't say how he felt" 
"I daresay not; but I saw him shake hands with 
you. And so Lily Dale has come to town?" 
"Yes, — Miss Dale is here with her uncle." 
"And you are going away to-morrow?" 
"Yes, — and I am going away to-morrow." 
After that there was a pause in the conversation. 
Eames was sick of it, and was very anxious to change 
the conversation. Miss Demolines was sitting in the 
shadoV, away from the light, with her face half hidden 
by her hands. At last she jumped up, and came 
round and stood opposite to him. "I charge you to 
tell me truly, John £ames," she said, "whether Miss 
Lilian Dale is engd,ged to you as your future wife?" 
He looked up into her face, but made no immediate 
answer. Then she repeated her demand. "I ask you 
whether you are engaged to marry Miss Lilian Dale, 
and I expect a reply." 

"What makes you ask me such a question as that?" 

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**What iftake» me ask yon? Do yon deny mj 
right to feel so much interest in yon as to desire to 
know whether yon are about to be married? Of eonrse 
you can decline to tell me if yon choose." 

"And if I Were to decline?" 

'^I should know then that it WM tfue^ and I should 
think that you were a coward." 

"I don't see any cowardice hk ^e matter. One 
does not i^lk about that kind of lUng to everybody." 

"Upon toy word, Mr. Eames, you are complimentary; 

— indeed you ai^. To everybody! I am Everybody, 

— am I? That is Jrour idea of — friendship! You 
may be sure that after that I shall ask no further 

"I didn't mean it in the way youVe taken it, Ma- 

"In what way did you mean it, sir? Everybody! 
Mr. Eames, you must excuse me if I say that I am 
not well enough thid evening to bescr the company of 

— everybody. I think you had better leave me. I 
think that you had better go." 

"Are you angry with me?" 

"Tes, I am, — veiy angry. Because I have con- 
descended to feel an interest in your welfare, and have 
asked you a question which I thought thai our intimacy 
justified, you tell me that that is a kind of thing that 
you will not talk about to — everybody. I beg you 
to understand that I will not be your everybody. Mr. 
Eames, there is tiie door." 

Things had now beeoind veiy serious. Hitherto 
Johnny had been seated comfortably in the comer of 
a sofa, and had not found himself bound to move, 
though Miss Detaolines was siaading before him. But 



now it was absolutely necess^iy tkmft he shiMSi do 
something. He must either ^-^ or else he iniiA ihake 
imtreaty to be aMiawcA to itemaiii. Would it ]k6t be 
expedient ti^bt h^ bhoiild take the lady kt her wotd 
and esoa^^? Shse was still pointing to ^he dowr^ and 
the wa)r wan oi>eil to hsm; If he wer^ tt» >ttlk out 
now4 of couise he would ne7^ return, and ^erc would 
be the end of the Ba^#ater romaneei If he mnatiied 
it might be that the romance would become trotible- 
some. He got up firom his seat, and had ahncist re- 
solved that he would go. Had she not somewhat re- 
laxed the.nii^'esty of her anger as he ro«e, had th^ fire 
of heir ey« not b^en somewhat quenched and <iw lines 
of her mouth softoaisd, I think that he wtftild ika^ 
gone. The romance would have beeh 'over, and he 
would have felt thUt it had come to An ingidfioue end; 
but it would have been w^l for Un that he should 
have gone. Though the fire was eomewhat qaeilched 
and the lines were somev^at softeooedv she was etill 
pointing td the door. "Do Jrou mean it?" he said. 

"I do mean it^ — certaiiilyJ' 

"And this is to be the end of everything?" 

"I do not know what )rou meion by everything. It 
is a vety little everything to you, I should dAy; I do 
not quite understand your everything a^d yoitf every- 

"I will go, if you wish me to go, of course." 

"I do wish it" 

"But be&l*e I ^, you must permit me to Excuse 
my&elf. I did not h^femd to offend you. I merely iheant-^--" 

i'You merdy meanti Give me an hotteet ffioiswer 
to a dowiiright queetiom. Axe you engaged to Miss 

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•*No; — I am not" 

"Upon your honour?" 

**Do you tMnk that I would tell you a fiilsehood 
about it? What I meant was that it is a kind of thing 
one doesn^t like talking about, merely because stories 
are bandied about People are so fond of saying that 
this man is engaged to tjiat woman, and of making up 
tales; and it seems to be so foolish to contradict such 

"But you know that you used to be very fond of 

He had taken up his hat when he had risen from 
the sofa, and was still standing with it ready in his 
hand. He was even now half-minded to escape; and 
the name of Lily Dale in Miss Demolines^ mouth was 
60 distasteful to him that he would have done so, — 
he would have gone in sheer disgust, had she not 
stood in his way, so that he could not escape without 
moving her, or going round behind the sofa. She did 
not stir to make way for him, and it may be that she 
understood that he was her prisoner, in spite of her 
late command to him. to go. It may: be, also, that she 
understood his vexation and the cause of it, and that 
she saw the expediency of leaving Lily Dale alone for 
the present At any rate, she pressed him no more 
upon the matter. "Are we to be Mends again?" she 

"I hope so," replied Johnny. 

"There is my hand, then." . So Johnny took her 
hand and pressed it, and held it a little while, ^ — just 
long enough to .seem to give a meaning to the action. 
"You will get to understand me some day," she said, 
"and will learn that I do not like to be reckoned 

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among the eyeiybodies bj those for whom I really — 
reallj — really have a regard. When I am angry, I 
am angry." 

"You were very angry jttst now, when yon showed 
me the way to the door." 

"And I meant it too, — for the minnte. Only 
think y — supposing ;fon had gone! We should never 
have seen each other again; — never, neverl What a 
change one word may make!" 

"One word often does make a change." 

"Does it not? Just a little *yes,' or 'no.' A *no' 
is said when a 'yes' is meant, and then there comes no 
second chance, and what a change that may be from 
bright hopes to desolation! Or, worse again, a 'yes' 
is said when a 'no' ^ould be said, — when the speaker 
knows that it should be 'no.' What a difference that 
'no' makes 1 When one thinks of it, one wonders that 
a woman should ever say anything but 'no.' " 

"They never did say anything else to me," said 

"I don*t believe it. I daresay the truth is, you 
never asked anybody." 

"Did anybody ever ask you?" 

"What would you give to know? But I will tell 
you frankly; — yes. And once, — once I thought 
that my answer would not have been a 'no.' " 

"But you changed your mind?" 

"When the moment came I could not bring myself 
to say the word that should rob me of my liberty for 
ever. I had said 'no' to him offcen enough before, — 
poor fellow; and on this occasion he told me that he 
asked for the last time. 'I shall not give myself 
another chance,' he said, 'for I shall be on board ship 

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234 THE hkfit xs»RomctM o^ bahi^t. 

within a T^eek.' I tAetely bacle iiM gtd*6d*by. ft w«A 
the only atifiiter I ^ve Mm. He tma^ll^ood me^ Mi 
since that day his foot has never pressed his native 

^^And was it all because yim are bo fond of yottr 
liberty?" said Johnny. 

^'Perhaps, — I did not -^ love hiM^" said MiflS 
Demolines, thonglitMly. She was now tigtAa Matted kt 
her chair, and John Earned hiEuLgOBe book to his C0tii^ 
of the sofa. ''If I had l«ally loved hiiki I sap^de it 
would haVe been otherwlsei He l^as ^ gallant ftllow, 
and had two thottsahd a year of liis owb^ m JaAm 
stock and other securities." 

"Dear mel And he has not manrled yet?" 
"He wrote me word to say tbat he wo«ld never 
marry till I was maitied, — Irat that on the day thai 
he should hear of my weddings he would go to the 
first single woman near ham 9Xkd propose* It was a 
droll thing to say; was it not?" 

"The single woman ought to feel herself dattered.^ 

"He would find plenty to aoc^ hinit Besides 

being so well off he was a very biuldsiome fellow ^ and 

is connected with people of title. He had eveirj^hing 

to recommend him." 

"And yet you revised him so o^n?" 
"Yes. You think I was foolish; — do you not?" 
"I don^t think you were at all foolish if you didn't 
care for him." 

"It was my destiny, I suppose) I daresay I was 

wrong. Other girls marry without violent love, and 

do very well afterwards. Look at Maria Clutterbuck." 

The name of Maria Clutterbuck had become odioua 

to John Eames. As long as Miss Demolines would 

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continue to talk about hi^nseH he couUl listen witb some 
amount of gratiicatloil. GonyeirBaitkm on that subject 
was the natural progress of the Bayswater romance. 
And if Madaiina would only call her friend by her 
present name, he bad no strong objection to an oc- 
casional mention of th^ lady; but the combined names 
of Maria Clutterbuck had eome to be absoluijely dis- 
tasteful to him. He did not beli^tv^ in the Maria 
Clutterbuck friendship, — either in its past oi^ present 
existeoeoy as described by Madalma. Indeed, he did 
not j^tit strong faith in anything* that Madaiina said to 
him. In tlk^ handsome H^entlemtto with two thousand 
a year, he did not believe al all. But the handsome 
gentlwndn had only been mentioned oiioe in the course 
of his acquaintance with Mifts Demolines^ whereas Maria 
Clutterbuck had oosie up so often! "Upon my word 
I niiifift widi you good-by^" he said. "It is going on for 
eleven o^clock, and I have to start to-molrow at seven.*' 
"What difference does that make?'' 
"A fellow wants to get a little sleep, you know.'' 
"Go tkcn^ '-^ go and get yout sle^. What a 
sleepy-headed generation it is." Jobmiy longed to ask 
her whethei^ idie last generation was Ifdsb sleepy-headed, 
and wheth^ the gentleman with two thousand a year 
had sat up talking all night before he pressed his foot 
for the last time on his native soil) but he did not 
dare. As he said to himself alterwards, "It would not 
do to bring the Bayswater romance too suddenly to 
its termination!" "But before ydu go^" she continued, 
"I must say a word to you about that picture. Did 
you speak to Mr. Dalrymple?" 

"I did not I have been so busy with different 
things that I have not seen him." 

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"And now you are going?" 

"Well, — to tell the truth, I think I shall see him 
to-night, in spite of my being so sleepy-headed. I wrote 
him a line that I would look in and smoke a cigar 
with him if he chanced to be at home I" 

"And that is why you want to go. A gentleman 
cannot live without Ms cigar now." 

"It is especially at your bidding that I am going 
to see him." 

"60, then, — and make your Mend understand 
that if he continues this picture of his, he will bring 
himself to great trouble, and will probably ruin the 
woman for whom he professes, I presume, to feel some- 
thing like Mendship. You may tell him that Mrs. Van 
Siever has already heard of it." 

"Who told her?" demanded Johnny. 

"Never mind. You need not look at me like that 
it was not I. Do you suppose that secrets can be kept 
when so many people know them? Every servant in 
Maria's house knows all about it" 

"As for that, I don't suppose Mrs. Broughton makes 
any great secret of it" 

"Do you think she has told Mr. Broughton? I am 
sure she has not I may say I know she has not 
Maria Clutterbuck is infatuated. There is no other 
excuse to be made for her." 

"Good-by," said Johnny, hurriedly. 

"And you really are going?" 

"Well, — yes. I suppose so." 

"Go then. I have noting more to say to you." 

"I shall come and call directly I return," said 

"You may do as you please about that, sir." 

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"Do you mean that yoti won't be glad to see me 

"I am not going to flatter yon, Mr. Eames. Mamma 
will be well by that time, I hope, and I do not mind 
telling you that you are a favourite with her." Johnny 
thought that this was particularly kind, as he had seen 
so very little of the old lady. " If you choose to call 
upon her," said Madalina, "of course she will be glad 
to see you." 

"But I was speaking of yourself, you know?" and 
Johnny permitted himself for a moment to look tenderly 
at her. 

"Then from myself pray understand that I will say 
nothing to flatter your self-love." 

"I thought you would be kinder just when I was 
going away." 

"I think I have been quite kind enough. As you 
observed yourself just now, it is nearly eleven o'clock, 
and I must ask you to go away. Bon voyage, and a 
happy return to you." 

"And you will be glad to see me when I am back? 
Tell me that you will be glad to see me." 

"I will tell you nothing of the kind. Mr. Eames^ 
if you do, I will be very angry with you." And then 
he went 

On his way back to his own lodgings he did call 
on Conway Dalrymple, and in spite of his need for 
early rising, sat smoking with the artist for an hour, 
"If you don't take care, young man," said his friend, 
"you will find yourself in % scrape iwith your Madalina." 

"What sort of a scrape?" 

"As you walk away from Porchester Terrace some 

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fine day, you will have to congratolate youvself on 
luiYing made a succesBfal overtare towards matrimony.'* 

"You don't &dvk I ftm sueb » fool #a that poroea to?" 

^^ Other Qiep j^ wifie as you have done the same 
sort of thing. Miss Bemolines i? ¥ery clever, and I 
daresay yoiji find it amusing." 

"It isn't so lauch that she's dever, and I can hardly 
say that it is amusing. One gets awfully tb^d of it, 
you know. But a feUow must have something to do, 
and that is as good as anything else." 

"I suppose you have not heard that one young 
man levanted last year to save himself from a hreach 
of promise case?" 

"I wonder whether he had any money in Indian 

"What makes you ask that?" 

"Nothing particular." 

"Whatever little he had he chose to save, and I 
think I heard that he went to Canada. His name was 
Shorter; and they say that, on the eve of his going, 
Madalina sent him word that she had no objection to 
the colonies, and that, under the pressing emergency 
of his expatriation, she was willing to become Mrs. 
Shorter with more expedition than usually attends 
fashionable weddings. Shorter, however, escaped, and 
has never been seen back again." 

Eames declared that he did not believe a word of 
it. Nevert^less, as he walked home be came to the 
conclusion that Mr. Shorter must have been the hand- 
some gentleman with Indian securities, to whom "no" 
had been said once too often. 

While sitting with Conifay Dalrymple, he had 
forgotten to say a word about Jaei and Sisera^ 

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Dr. Tempest at the Palace. 

InTiHATiiON ti#4 ^e^ BWt from the pitlace to Dr. 
Ti^iQ^Qij; oJ^ &iUife(i;b]^4g^ q( i^ bifihop's intention thi^t 
a, ^fiipwisaw^ ilt^TiW ^» b^^d by huR, as irwrftl dea?a, 
Yfiik o^iw ?wigbl>Plwing clergyBo^u, im^- iw^qssqi?^ with 
Hww, Ijpi^ Uwiuky Jjwght bo made aa the pai:^ of tbe 

nuH^ bo, Y^nd^]^^ ^^ by thijs time tbe op^UQ^ bad 
b(9iiQmf( vejy gen^^l ftat Mr. Crawley bad been gvilty, 
— tbf.t b© bfid ^Wwd <ibo ch^iw iR bta boufe, w4 
d^t ^ b^, ^or hoWhig it for iijapiy i^wmibft, suc- 
cumbed to temptation, and applied it to his oviji. pur- 
po^. But vap^ps esccnf^s vere ma4e fqy bim by 
those wb^. sq b^U^^^dr ^ the first plac^ it was felt 
by aljL Yfb<^ rea^y ^;i^w ii^ything of the man's character, 
that tb^ Y^jf^ ^ct of his committi^ig such a crime 
prpfyed him tP be hfvrdly responsible for his actions. 
He wjuf^ h^ve i^J^ov?^, had not all judgifjipnt in such 
m^tti^rs been, tj^en fron^ him, that tbe cheque would 
ce^i^tainly be t^f^ced bi|>ck to his ba^d?* No attempt 
had \^en n^^do h th^ dwppsiug of it to dispose of it in 
su^ a way tb^ti ^e triHJ^ should be oJ^ij^ratei He 
had siwply giy^n ii to. a* ^igbbow with ^ direction to 
haye \% ci|Ab^) ^d bad ^^ga his own i^me on the 
back of ii Aud tb^^W^ii tbo^gb tbere cg^uld be no 
doubt as to the t^eft i^ thc^ min4 pf those who sup- 
posed that be bad foimd tbe qheq^ue in his own bpuse, 
yet the guilt of t^e theft se^neid t^p be 9tlmo8t annihilated 
by the folly of the thief. Aud tbeu his poverty, ^Ad his 
i^ggles, and the si^ffpHAgs of his wife, wpre rei^pa- 

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bered; and stories were told from mouth to moath of 
Ids industry in his profession, of his great zeal among 
those brickmiEtkers of Hoggle End, of acts of charity 
done by him which startled the people of the district 
into acbniration; — how he had worked with his own 
hands for the sick poor to whom he could not give re- 
lief in money, turning a woman's mangle for a couple 
of hours, and carrying a boy's load along the lanes. 
Dr. Tempest and others declared that he had derogated 
from the dignity of his position as an English parish 
clergyman by such acts; but, nevertheless, tho stories 
of these deeds acted strongly on the minds of both 
men and women, creating an admiration for Mr. Craw- 
ley which was much stronger than the condemnation of 
his guilt 

Even Mrs. Walker and her daughter, and the Miss 
Prettymans, had so far given way that they had ceased 
to asseverato their belief in Mr. Crawley's innocence. 
They contented themselves now with simply expressing 
a hope that he would be acquitted by a jury, and that 
when he should be so acquitted the thing might be al- 
lowed to rest. If he had sinned, no doubt he had re- 
pented. And then there were serious debates whether 
he might not have stolen the money without much sin, 
being mad or half-mad, — touched with madness wiien 
he took it; and whether he might not, in spite of such 
temporary touch of madness, be well fitted for his 
parish duties. Sorrow had afflicted him grievously; 
but that sorrow, though it had incapacitated him for 
the management of his own affairs, had not rendered 
him unfit for the ministrations of his parish. Such 
were the arguments now used in his favour by the 
women around him; and the men were not keen to 

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contradict them. The wish that he should be acquitted 
and allowed to remain in his parsonage was very general. 
When therefore it became known that the bishop 
had decided to put on foot another investigation, with 
the view of bringing Mr. Crawley's conduct under ec- 
clesiastical condemnation, almost everybody accused 
the bishop of persecution. The world of the diocese 
declared that Mrs. Proudie was at work, and that the 
bishop himself was no better than a puppet. It was 
in vain that certain clear-headed men among the 
clergy, of whom Dr. Tempest himself was one, pointed 
out that the bishop after all might perhaps be right; — 
that if Mr. Crawley were guilty, and if he should be 
found to have been so by a jury, it might be abso- 
lutely necessary that an ecclesiastical court should take 
some cognizance of the crime beyond that taken by 
the civil law. "The jury," said Dr. Tempest, dis- 
cussing the case with Mr. Robarts and other clerical 
neighbours, — "the jury may probably find him guilty 
and recommend him to mercy. The judge will have 
heard his character, and will have been made acquainted 
with his manner of life, and will deal as lightly with 
the case as the law will allow him. For aught I know 
he may be imprisoned for a month. I wish it might 
be for no more than a day, — or an hour. But when 
he comes out from his month's imprisonment, — how 
then? Surely it should be a case for ecclesiastical in- 
quiry, whether a clergyman who has committed a theft 
should be allowed to go into his pulpit directly he 
comes out of prison?" But the answer to this was 
that Mr. Crawley always had been a good clergyman, 
was a good clergyman, at this moment, and would be 
a good clergyman when he did come out of prison. 

Th$ Last ChrotUdi (/ Sanfit, JJ, 16 

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tempest, though he had argued in 
by no means eager for the com- 
the commission over irhich he was ix) 

to preside. In spite of snch ai^- 
K)ye, which came from the man's head 
was brought to bear upon the matter, 
rough desire within his heart to oppose 
e had no strong sympathy with Mr. 
id others. He would have had Mr. 
d without regret, presuming Mr. Craw- 
n guilty. But he had a much stronger 
gard to the bishop. Had there been 

silencing the [bishop, — could it have 
> take any steps in that direction, — 

been very active. It may therefore 
that in spite of his defence of the 

proceedings as to the commission, he 
it the bishop should fail, and anxious 
lents in the bishop's way, should it 
that he could do so with justice. Dr. 
3II known among his parishioners to be 
mpathetic, some said unfeeling also, 
it was admitted by those who cUsliked 
at he was both practical and just, and 
T the welfare of many, though he was 
by the misery of one. Such was the 
Bctor of Silverbridge and rural dean in 
d who was now called upon by the 

him in making frirther inquiry as to 
leque for twenty pounds. 
I period Archdeacon Grantly and Dr. 
ch other and discussed the question of 
uilt Both these men w^e inimical to 

'•- ,v -"-lie -v* 

Hois 1 . ^ *fe 
r^t the? *"««« 

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the present bishop of the diocese, and both had per- 
haps respected the old bishop beyond all other men. 
But they were different in this, that the archdeacon 
hated Dr. Prondie as a partisan, — whereas Dr. Tem- 
pest opposed the bishop on certain principles which he 
endeavoured to make clear, at any rate to himself. 
"Wrong!" said the archdeacon, speaking of the 
bishop^s intention of issuing a commission — "of 
course he is wrong. How could anything right come 
from him or from her? I should be sorry to have to 
do his bidding." 

"I think you are a little hard upon Bishop Proudie," 
said Dr. Tempest." 

"One cannot be hard upon him," said the arch- 
deacon. "He is so scandalously weak, and she is so 
radically vicious, that they cannot but be wrong to- 
gether. The very fact that such a man should be a 
bishop among us is to me terribly strong evidence of 
evil days coming." 

"You are more impulsive than I am," said Dr. 
Tempest. "In this case I am sorry for the poor man, 
who is, I am sure, honest in the main. But I believe 
that in such a case your father would have done just 
what the present bishop is doing; — that he could 
have done nothing else; and as I think that Dr. Proudie 
is right I shall do all that I can to assist him in the 

The bishop's secretaay had written to Dr. Tempest, 
telling him of the bishop's purpose; and now, in one 
of the last days of March, the bishop himself wrote to 
Dr. Tempest, asking him to come over to the palace. * 
The letter was worded most courteously, and expressed 
very feelingly the great regret which the writer felt at 




being obliged to take these proceedings against a 
clergyman in his diocese. Bishop Proudie knew how 
to write such a letter. By the writing of such letters, 
and by the making of speeches in the same strain, he 
had become Bishop of Barchester. Now, in this letter, 
he begged Dr. Tempest to come over to him, saying 
how delighted Mrs. Prondie would be to see him at 
the palace. Then he went on to explain the great 
difficulty which he felt, and great sorrow also, in deal- 
ing with this matter of Mr. Crawley. He looked, 
therefore, confidently for Dr. Tempest*s assistance.. 
Thinking to do the best for Mr. Crawley, and anxious 
to enable Mr. Crawley to remain in quiet retirement 
till the trial should be over,, he had sent a clergyman 
over to Hogglestock, who would have relieved Mr. 
Crawley from the burden of the church-services; — 
but Mr. Crawley would have none of this relief. Mr. 
Crawley had been obstinate and overbearing, and had 
persisted in claiming his right to his own pulpit ^ 
Therefore was the bishop obUged to interfere legally, 
and therefore was he under the necessity of asking Dr. 
Tempest to assist him. Would Dr. Tempest come 
over on the Monday, and stay till the Wednesday? 

The letter was a very good letter, and Dr. Tem- 
pest was obliged to do as he was asked. He so far 
modified the bishop's proposition that he reduced the 
sojourn at the palace by one night. He wrote to say 
that he would have the pleasure of dining with the 
bishop and Mrs. Proudie on the Monday, but would 
return home on the Tuesday, as soon as the business 
in hand would permit him. "I shall get on very well 
with him," he said to his wife before he started; "but 
I am afraid of the woman. If she interferes, there 

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will be a row." "Then, my dear," said Lis wife, 
"there will be a row, for I am told that she always 
interferes." On reaching the palace about half-an-honr 
before dinner-time. Dr. Tempest found that other 
guests were expected, and on descending to the great 
yellow drawing-room, which was used only on state 
occasions, he encountered Mrs. Proudie and two of her 
daughters arrayed in a full panoply of female armour. 
She received him with her sweetest smiles, and if there 
had been any former enmity between Silverbridge and 
the palace, it was now all forgotten. She regretted 
greatly that Mrs. Tempest had not accompanied the 
doctor; — for Mrs. Tempest also had been invited. 
But llLrs. Tempest was not quite as well as she might 
have been, the doctor had said, and very rarely slept 
away from home. And then the bishop came in and 
greeted his guest with his pleasantest good-humour. 
It was quite a sorrow to him that Silverbridge was so 
distant, and that he saw so little of Dr. Tempest; but 
he hoped that that might be somewhat mended now, 
and that leisure might be found for social delights; — 
to all which Dr. Tempest said but little, bowing to 
the bishop at each separate expression of his lordship^s 

There were guests there that evening who did not 
often sit at the bishop^s table. The archdeacon and 
Mrs. Grantly had been summoned from Plumstead, 
and had obeyed the summons. Great as was the en- 
mity between the bishop and the archdeacon, it had 
never quite taken the form of open palpable hostility. 
Each, therefore, asked the other to dinner perhaps 
once every year; and each went to the other, perhaps, 
once in two years. And Dr. Thome from Chaldicotes 

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was there, but without his wife, who in these days was 
up in London. Mrs. Proudie always expressed a warm 
friendship for Mrs. Thome, and on this occasion loudly 
regretted her absence. "You must tell her, Dr. Thome, 
how exceedingly much we miss her." Dr. Thome, 
who was accustomed to hear his wife speak of her 
dear friend Mrs. Proudie with almost unmeasured ridi- 
cule, promised that he would do so. "We are so sorry 
the Luftons couldn't come to us," said Mrs. Proudie, 
— not alluding to the dowager, of whom it was well 
known that no earthly inducement would have suf- 
ficed to make her put her foot within Mrs. Proudie's 
room; — "but one of the children is ill, and she 
could not leave him." But the Greshams were there 
from Boxall Hill, and the Thomes from Ullathome, 
and, with the exception of a single chaplain who pre- 
tended to carve, Dr. Tempest and the archdeacon were 
the only clerical guests at the table. From all which 
Dr. Tempest knew that the bishop was anxious to 
treat him with special consideration on the present 

The dinner was rather long and ponderous, and 
occasionally almost dull. The archdeacon talked a 
good deal, but a bystander with an acute ear might 
have understood from the tone of his voice that he 
was not talking as he would have talked among friends. 
Mrs. Proudie felt this, and understood it, and was 
angry. She could never find herself in the presence 
of the archdeacon without becoming angry. Her ac- 
curate ear would always appreciate the defiance of 
episcopal authority, as now existing in Barchester, 
which was concealed, or only half concealed, by all 
the archdeacon's words. But the bishop was not so 

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t>U, TBitPBST At tOB PALACE 247 

keen, nor so easily iK>uf(ed to wrath; and though the 
presence of his enemy did to a certain degree cow him, 
he strove to fight against the feeling with renewed 

"You have imjHroved so upon the old days," said 
the archdeacon, speaking of some small matter with 
reference to the cathedral, "that one hardly knows the 
old place." 

"I hope we have not Mien off," said the bishop, 
with a smile. 

"We have improved. Dr. Grantly," said Mrs. 
Proudie, with great emphasis on her words. **What 
you say is true. We have improved." 

"Not a doubt about that," said the archdeacon. 
Then Ifes. Grantly interposed, strove to change the 
subject, and threw oil upon the waters. 

"Talking of improvements," said Mrs. Grantly, 
"what an excellent row of houses they have built at 
the bottom of High Street I wonder who is to live 
in them?" 

"I remember when that was the very worst part 
of the town," said Dr. Thome. 

"And now they're asking seventy pounds apiece 
for houses which did not cost above six hundred each 
to bnUd," said Mr. Thome of Ullathome, with that 
seeming dislike of modem success which is evinced by 
most of the elders of the world. 

"And who is to live in them?" asked Mrs. 

"Two of them have been already taken by clergy- 
men," said the bishop, in a tone of triumph. 

"Yes," said the archdeacon, *^and the houses in 
the Close which used to be the residences of the pre- 

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bendaries have been leased out to tallow-chandlers and 
retired brewers. That comes of the working of the 
Ecclesiastical Commission." 

"And why not?" demanded Mrs. Prondie. 

"Why not, indeed, if you like to have tallow- 
chandlers next door to you?" said the archdeacon. "In 
the old days, we would sooner have had our brethren 
near to us." 

"There is nothing. Dr. Grantly, so objectionable in 
a cathedral town as a lot of idle clergymen," said Mrs. 

"It is beginning to be a question to me," said the 
archdeacon, "whether there is any use in clergymen at 
all for the present generation." 

"Dr. Grantly, those cannot be your real sentiments," 
said Mrs. Proudie. Then Mrs. Grantly, working hard 
in her vocation as a peacemaker, changed the conversa- 
tion again, and began to talk of the American war. 
But even that was made matter of discord on church 
matters, — the archdeacon professing an opinion that 
the Southerners were Christian gentlemen, and the 
Northerners infidel snobs; whereas Mrs. Proudie had 
an idea that the Gospel was preached with genuine zeal 
in the Northern States. And at each such outbreak 
the poor bishop would laugh uneasily, and say a word 
or two to which no one paid much attention. And so 
the dinner went on, not always in the most pleasant 
manner for those who preferred continued social good- 
humour to the occasional excitement of a half-sup- 
pressed battle. 

Not a word was said about Mr. Crawley. When 
Mrs. Proudie and the ladies had left the dining-room, 
the bishop strove to get up a little lay conversation. 

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He Bpoke to Mr. Thome about hk game, and toDr.Thorne 
about his timber, and even to Mr. Gresham about his 
hounds. "It is not so very many years, Mr. Gresham," 
said he, "since the Bishop of Barchester was expected 
to keep hounds himself," and the bishop laughed at his 
own joke. 

"Your lordship shall have them back at the palace 
next season," said young Frank Gresham, "if you will 
promise to do the county justice." 

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the bishop. "What do you 
say, Mr. Tozer?" Mr. Tozer waa the chaplain on 

"I have not the least objection in the world, my 
lord," said Mr. Tozer, "to act as second whip." 

"I^m afraid you'll find them an expensive adjunct 
to the episcopate," said the archdeacon. And then the 
joke waa over; for there had been a rumour, now for 
some years prevalent in Barchester, that Bishop Proudie 
was not liberal in his expenditure. As Mr. Thome 
said afterwards to his cousin the doctor, the archdeacon 
might have spared that sneer. "The archdeacon will 
never spare the man who sits in his father's seat," 
sud the doctor. "The pity of it is that men who are 
so thoroughly different in all their sympathies should 
ever be brought into contact." "Dear, dear," said the 
archdeacon, as he stood afterwards on the rag before 
the drawing-room fire, "how many rubbers of whist I 
have seen played in this room." "I sincerely hope 
that yon will never see another played here," said Mrs. 
Proudie. "I'm quite sure that I shall not," said the 
archdeacon. For this last sally his wife scolded him 
bitterly on their way home. "You know very well," 
she said, "that the times are changed, and that if you 

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were Bishop of Baxchester yourself you would not have 
whist played in the palace." "I only know," said he, 
''that when we had ^e whist we had some true reli^on 
along with it, and some good sense and good feeling 
also." "You cannot be right to sneen at others for doing 
what you would do yourself," said his wife. Then the 
archdeacon threw himself sulkily into the coiner of his 
carriage, and nothing more waa said between him and 
his wife about the bishop's dinner-party. 

Not a word was spoken that night at the palace 
about Mr. Crawley; said whei^ that obnoxious guest 
from Plumstead was gone, Mrs. Proudie resumed her 
good-humour towards Dr. Tempest So intent was she 
on conciliating him that she refrained even from abustnf^ 
the archdeacon, whom she knew to have been intimate 
for very many years with the rector of Silverbridge. 
In her accustomed moods she would have broken forth 
in loud anger, caring nothing for old friendships; but 
at present she was thoughtful of the morrow, and 
desirous that Dr. Tempest should, if possible, meet her 
in a friendly himiour when the great discussion as to 
Hogglestock should be opened between them. But 
Dr. Tempest understood her bearing, and as he pulled 
on his nightcap made certain resolutions of his own as 
to the morrow's proceedings. ''I don't suppose she 
will dare to interfere," he had said to his wife; ''but if 
she does, I shall certainly tell the bishop that I canndt 
speak on the subject in her presence." 

At breakiast on the following morning there was 
no one present but the bishop, Mrs. Proudie, and Dr. 
Tempest. Very little w4s fmA at the meat Mr» Grttwley's 
name was not mentioned, but there seemed to he a 
general feeling among them that there was a task 

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hanging over them wHch prevented any general con- 
versation. The eggs were eaten and the coffee was 
drank, but the eggs and the coffee disappeared almost 
in silence. When these ceremonies had been altogether 
completed, and it was clearly necessary that something 
further should be done, the bishop spoke: "Dr. Tempest," 
he said, "perhaps you will join me in my study at 
eleven. We can then say a few words to each other 
about the unfortunate matter on which I shall have to 
trouble you." Dr. Tempest said he would be punctual 
to his appointment, and then the bishop withdrew, mut- 
tering something as to the necessity of looking at his 
letters. Dr. Tempest took a newspaper in his hand, 
which had been brought in by a servant, but Mrs. 
Proudie did not allow him to read it. "Dr. Tempest," 
she said, "this is a matter of most vital importance. I 
am quite sure that you feel that it is so." 

"What matter, madam?" said the doctor. 

"This terrible affair of Mr. Crawley's. If something 
be not done the whole diocese will be disgraced." Then 
she waited for an answer, but receiving none she was 
obliged to continue. "Of the poor man's guilt there 
can, I fear, be no doubt" Then there was another 
pause, but still the doctor made no answer. "And if 
he be guilty," said Mrs. Proudie, resolving that she 
would ask a question that must bring forth some reply, 
"can any experienced clergyman think that he can be 
fit to preach from the pulpit of a parish church? I am 
sure that you must agree with me. Dr. Tempest? Con- 
sider the souls of the people!" 

"Mrs. Proudie," said he, "I think that we had 
better not discuss the matter." 

"Not discuss it?" 

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^^I think that we had better not do so. If I under- 
stand the bishop aright, he wishes that I should take 
some step in the matter." 

" Of course he does." 

'^And therefore I must decline to make it a matter 
of common conversation." 

"Common conversation, Dr. Tempest! I should be 
the last person in the world to make it a matter of 
common conversation. I regard this as by no means 
a common conversation. God forbid that it should be 
a common conversation. I am speaking now very 
seriously with reference to the interests of the Church, 
which I think will be endangered by having among 
her active servants a man who has been guilty of so 
base a crime as theft. Think of it. Dr. Tempest. Theft! 
Stealing money! Appropriating to his own use a cheque 
for twenty pounds which did not belong to him! And 
then telling such terrible falsehoods about it! Can 
anything be worse, anything more scandalous, anything 
more dangerous? Indeed, Dr. Tempest, I do not regard 
this as any common conversation." The whole of this 
speech was not made at once, fluently, or without a 
break. From stop to stop Mrs, Proudie paused, waiting 
for her companion's words; but as he would not speak 
she was obliged to continue. "I am sure that you 
cannot but agree with me. Dr. Tempest?" she said. 

"I am quite sure that I shall not discuss it with 
you," said the doctor, very brusquely. 

"And why not? Are you not here to discuss it?" 

"Not with you, Mrs. Proudie. You must excuse 
me for saying so, but I am not here to discuss any such 
matter with you. Were I to do so, I should be guilty 
of a very great impropriety." 

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"All these things are in common between me and 
the bishop," said Mrs. Proudie, with an air that was 
intended to be dignified, but which nevertheless displayed 
her rising anger. 

"As to that I know nothing, but they cannot be in 
common between you and me. It grieves me much 
that I should have to speak to you in such a strain, 
but my duty allows me no alternative. I think, if you 
will permit me, I will take a turn round the garden 
before I keep my appointment with his lordship." And 
80 saying he escaped from the lady without hearing 
her forther remonstrance. 

It still wanted nearly an hour to the time named 
by the bishop, and Dr. Tempest used it in preparing 
for his withdrawal from the palace as soon as his 
interview with the bishop should be over. After what 
had passed he thought that he would be justified in 
taking his departure without bidding adieu formally to 
Mrs. Proudie. He would say a word or two, explain- 
ing his haste, to the bishop; and then, if he could get 
out of the house at once, it might be that he would 
never see Mrs. Proudie again. He was rather proud of 
his success in their late battle, but he felt that, having 
been so completely victorious, it would be foolish in 
him to risk his laurels in the chance of another encounter. 
He would say not a word of what had happened to the 
bishop, and he thought it probable that neither would 
Mrs. Proudie speak of it, — at any rate till after he 
was gone. Generals who are beaten out of the field 
are not quick to talk of their own repulses. He, in- 
deed, had not beaten Mrs. Proudie out of the field. He 
had, in fact, himself run away. But he had left his 
foe silenced; and with such a foe, and in such a contest, 

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that was eveiytbiiig. He pnt up his portmanteau, 
therefore, and prepared for his final retreat Then he 
rang his bell and desired the servant to show him to 
the bishop's study. The servant did so, and when he 
entered the room the first thing he saw was Mrs. Proudie 
sitting in an arm-chair near the window. The bishop 
was also in the room, sitting with his arms upon the 
writing-table, and his head upon his hands. It was very 
evident that Mrs. Proudie did not consider herself to 
have been beaten, and that she was prepared to fight 
another battle. "Will you sit down. Dr. Tempest?" 
she said, motioning him with her hand to a chair op- 
posite to that occupied by the bishop. Dr. Tempest 
sat down. He felt that at the moment he had nothing 
else to do, and that he must restrain any remonstrance 
that he might make till Mr. Crawley's name should be 
mentioned. He was almost lost in admiration of the 
woman. He had left her, as he thought, utterly 
vanquii^hed and prostrated by his determined but un- 
courteous usage of her ; and here she was, present again 
upon the field of battle as though she had never been 
even wounded. He could see that there had been 
words between her and the bishop, and that she had 
carried a point on which the bishop had been very 
anxious to have his own way. He could perceive at 
once that the bishop had begged her to absent herself 
and was greatly chagrined that he should not have 
prevailed widi her. There she was, — and as Dr. 
Tempest was resolved that he would neither give advice 
nor receive instructions respecting Mr. Crawley in her 
presence, he could only draw upon his courage and his 
strategy for the coming warfare. For a few moments 
no one said a word. The bishop felt that if Dr. Tempest 

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woald only begin, ike work on hand might be got 
through, eren in his wife^s presence. Mrs. Prondie was 
aware that her hnsband should begin. If he would do 
BO, and if Dr. Tempest would listen and then reply, 
she might gradually make her way into the conversation; 
and if her words were once accepted then she could 
say all that she desired to say; then she could play 
her part and become somebody in the episcopal work. 
When once she should have been allowed liberty of 
speech, tlie enemy would be powerless to stop her. But 
all this Dr. Tempest understood quite as well as she 
understood it, and had they waited till night he would 
not have been the first to mention Mr. Crawley's name. 

The bishop sighed aloud. The sigh might be taken 
as expressing grief over the sin of the erring brother 
whose conduct they were then to discuss, and was not 
amiss. But when the sigh with its attendant murmurs 
had pasted away it was necessary that Some initiative 
step should be taken. ^^Dr. Tempest," said the bishop, 
"what are we to do about this poor stiff-necked gen- 
tleman?" Still Dr. Tempest did not speak. "There 
is no clergyman in the diocese," continued the bishop, 
"in whose prudence and wisdom I have more con- 
fidence than in yours. And I know, too, that you are 
by no means disposed to severity where severe measures 
are not necessary. What ougl^ we to do? If he has 
been guilty, he should not surely return to his pulpit 
alter the expiration <^ such punishment as ^e law of 
his country may award to him." 

Dr. Tempest looked at Mrs. Froudie, thinking that 
she might perhaps say a word now; but Mrs. Proudie 
knew her part better and was silent. Angry as she 
was, she contrived to hold her peace. Let the debate 

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once begin and she would be able to creep into it, and 
then to lead it, — and so she would hold her own. 
But she had met a foe as wary as herself. "My lord," 
said the doctor, "it will perhaps be well that you 
should communicate your wishes to me in writing. If 
it be possible for me to comply with them I will do so." 

"Yes; — exactly, no doubt; — but I tiiought that 
perhaps we might better understand each other if we 
had a few words of quiet conversation upon the sub- 
ject. I believe you know the steps that I have — " 

But here the bishop was interrupted. Dr. Tempest 
rose from his chair, and advancing to the table put 
both his hands upon it. "My lord," he said, "I feel 
myself compelled to say that which I would very much 
rather leave unsaid, were it possible. I feel the diffi- 
culty, and I may say delicacy, of my position; but I 
should be untrue to my conscience and to my feeling 
of what is right in such matters, if I were to take any 
part in a discussion on this matter in the presence of 
— a lady." 

"Dr. Tempest, what is your objection?" said Mrs. 
Proudie, rising from her chair, and coming also to the 
table, so that from thence she might confront her op- 
ponent; and as she stood opposite to Dr. Tempest she 
also put both her hands upon the table. 

"My dear, perhaps you will leave us for a few mo- 
ments," said the bishop. Poor bishop! Poor weak 
bishop! As the words came from his mouth he knew 
that they would be spoken in vain, and that, if so, 
it would have been better for him to have left them 

"Why should I be dismissed from your room without 
a reason?" said Mrs. Proudie. "Cannot Dr. Tempest 

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Ttnderstand that a wife may share her hnsband^s counsels, 
— as she must share his troubles? If he camiot, I 
pity him very much as to his own household." 

"Dr. Tempest," said the bishop, "Mrs. Proudie 
takes tlie greatest possible interest in everything concern- 
ing the diocese." 

"I am sure, my lord," said the doctor, "that you 
will see how unseemly it would be that I should in- 
terfere in any way between you and Mrs. Proudie. I 
certainly will not do so. I can only say again that if 
you will communicate to me your wishes in writing, I 
will attend to them, — if it be possible." 

"You mean to be stubborn," said Mrs. Proudie, 
whose prudence was beginning to give way under the 
great provocation to which her temper was being sub- 

"Yes, madam; if it is to be called stubbornness, I 
must be stubborn. My lord, Mrs. Proudie spoke to me 
on this subject in the breakfast-room after you had left 
it, and I then ventured to explain to her that in ac- 
cordance with such light as I have on the matter, I 
could not discuss it in her presence. I greatly grieve 
that I failed to make myself understood by her, — 
as, otherwise, this unpleasantness might have been 

"I understood you very well. Dr. Tempest, and I 
think you to be a most unreasonable man. Indeed, I 
might use a much harsher word." 

"You may use any word you please, Mrs. Proudie," 
said the doctor. 

"My dear, I really think you had better leave us 
for a few minutes," said the bishop. 

"No, my lord, — no," said Mrs. Proudie, turning 

The La$t CkrmicU of Barset II. 17^ j 

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round upon her husband. "Not so. It would be most 
unbecoming that I should be turned out of a room in 
this palace by an uncourteous word from a parish 
clergyman. It would be unseemly. If Dr. Tempest 
forgets his duty, I will not forget mine. There are 
other clergymen in the diocese besides Dr. Tempest 
who can undertake the very easy task of this commis- 
sion. As for hie having been appointed rural dean I 
don^t know how many years ago, it is a matter of no 
consequence whatever. In such a preliminary inquiry 
any three clergymen will suf&ce. It need not be done 
by the rural dean at all." 

"My dear!" 

"I will not be turned out of this room by Dr. 
Tempest; — and that is enough.'* 

"My lord," said the doctor, "you had better write 
to me as I proposed to you just now." 

"His lordship will not write. His lordship will do 
nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Proudie. 

"My dear!" said the bishop, driven in his per- 
plexity beyond all careftilness of reticence. "My dear, 
I do wish you wouldn't, — I do indeed. If you would 
only go away I" 

"I will not go away, my lord," said Mrs. Proudie. 

"But I will," said Dr. Tempest, feeling true com- 
passion for the unfortunate man whom he saw writhing 
in agony before him. "It will manifestly be for the 
best that I should retire. My lord, I wish you good 
morning. Mrs. Proudie, good morning." And so he 
left the room. 

"A most stubborn and a most ungentlemanlike 
man," said Mrs. Proudie, as soon as die door was 
closed behind the retreating rural dean. "I do not 

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tluDk that in the whole course of my life I ever met 
with any one so insubordinate and so ill-mannered. 
He is worse than the archdeacon/^ As she uttered 
these words she paced about the room. The bishop 
said nothing; and when she herself had been silent for 
a few minutes she turned upon him. "Bishop,^' she 
said, "I hope that you agree with me. I expect that 
you will agree with me in a matter that is of so much 
moment to my comfort, and I may say to my posi- 
tion generally in the diocese. Bishop, why do you not 

"You have behaved in such a way that I do not 
know that I shall ever speak agaiu," said the bishop. 

"What is this that you say?" 

"I say that I do not know how I shall ever speak 
again. You have disgraced me." 

"Disgraced youl I disgrace you! It is you that 
disgrace yourself by saying such words." 

"Very well. Let it be so. Perhaps you will go 
away now and leave me to myself I have got a bad 
headache, and I can't talk any more. Oh dear, oh 
dear, what will he think of it!" 

"And you mean to tell me that I have been 

"Yes, you have been wrong, — very wrong. Why 
didn't you go away when I asked you? You are 
always being wrong. I wish I had never come to 
Barchester. In any other position I should not have 
felt it so much. As it is I do not know how I can 
ever show my face again." 

"Not have felt what so much, Mr. Proudie?" said 
the wife, going back in the excitement of her anger to 
the nomenclature of old days. "And this is to be my 

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return for all my care in your belialf ! Allow me to 
tell you, Bir, that in any position in which you may 
be placed I know what is due to you, and tliat your 
dignity will never lose anything in my hands. I wish 
that you were as well able to take care of it yourself." 
Then she stalked out of the room, and left the poor 
man alone. 

Bishop Proudie sat alone in his study throughout 
the whole day. Once or twice in the course of the 
morning his chaplain came to him on some matter of 
business, and was answered with a smile, — the 
peculiar softness of which the chaplain did not fail to 
attribute to the right cause. For it was soon known 
throughout the household that there had been a quarreL 
Could he quite have made up his mind to do so, — 
could he have resolved that it would be altogether 
better to quarrel with his wife, — the bishop would 
have appealed to the chaplain, and have asked at any 
rate for sympathy. But even yet he could not bring 
himself to confess his misery, and to own himself to 
another to be the wretch that he was. Then during 
the long hours of the day he sat thinking of it all. 
How happy could he be if it were only possible for 
him to go away, and become even a curate in a parish, 
without his wifel Would diere ever come to him a 
time of freedom? Would she ever die? He was 
older than she, and of course he would die first Would 
it not be a fine thing if he could die at once, and Uius 
escape from his misery? 

What could he do, even supposing himself strong 
enough to fight the battle? He could not lock her up. 
He could not even very well lock her out of his room. 
She was his wife, and must have the run of his house. 

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He coidd not altogether debar h^ from the society of 
the diocesan clergymen. He had, on this very morning, 
taken strong measures with her. More than once or 
twice he had desired her to leave the room. What 
was there to be done with a woman who would not 
obey her husband, — who would not even leave him 
to die performance of his own work? What a blessed 
thing it would be if a bishop could go away £rom his 
home to his work every day like a clerk in a public 
office, — as a stone-mason does! But there was no 
such escape for him. He could not go away. And 
how was he to meet her again on this very day? 

And then for hours he thought of Dr. Tempest and 
Mr. Crawley, considering what he had better do to 
repair the shipwreck of the morning. At last he re- 
solved that he would write to the doctor; and before 
he had again seen hb wife, he did write his letter, 
and he sent it off. In this letter he made no direct 
€kllusion to the occurrence of the morning, but wrote 
as though there had not been any fixed intention of a 
personal discussion between them. ^*I think it will be 
better that there should be a commission,^* he said, 
'^and I would suggest that you should have four other 
clergymen with you. Perhaps you will select two 
yourself out of your rural deanery; and, if you do not 
object, I will name ajs the other two Mr. Thumble and 
Mr. Quiverftil, who are both resident in the city.'' As 
he wrote these two names he felt ashamed of himself, 
knowing that he had chosen the two men as being 
special friends of his wife, and feeling that he should 
have been brave enough to throw aside all considera- 
tions of his wife's favour, — especially at this moment, 
in which he was putting on his armour to do battle 

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against her. "It is not probable,^* be continued to say 
in bis letter, "tbat yon will be able to make yonr 
report until after tbe trial of tbis unfortunate gentleman 
sball bave taken place, and a verdict sball bave been 
given. Sbould be be acquitted, tbat, I imagine, sbonld 
end tbe matter. Tbere can be no reason wby we 
sbould attempt to go beyond tbe verdict of a jury. 
But sbould be be found guilty, I tbink we ought to be 
ready witb sucb steps as it will be becoming for us to 
take at tbe expiration of any sentence wbicb may be 
pronounced. It will be, at any rate, expedient tbat in 
sucb case tbe matter sbould be brought before an 
ecclesiastical court." He knew well as be wrote this, 
tbat be was proposing something much milder than tbe 
course intended by bis wife when she bad instigated 
him to take proceedings in tbe matter; but he did not 
much regard tbat now. Though he had been weak 
enough to name certain clergymen as assessors with 
tbe rural dean, because he thought that by doing so 
he would to a certain degree conciliate his wife, — • 
though be had been so far a coward, yet he was re* 
solved that he would not sacrifice to her his own 
judgment and his own conscience in his manner of 
proceeding. He kept no copy of Im letter, so that he 
might be unable to show her his very words when she 
sbould ask to see them. Of course he would tell her 
what he had done; but in telling her he would keep 
to himself what he bad said as to the result of an 
acquittal in a civil court. She need not yet be told 
that he had promised to take such a verdict as sufficing 
also for an ecclesiastical acquittal. In this spirit his 
letter was written and sent off before he again saw 
his wife. 

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He did not meet her till they came together in the 
drawing-room before dinner. In explaining the whole 
truth as to circumstances as they existed at the palace 
at that moment, it most be acknowledged that Mrs. 
Proudie herself, great as was her courage, and wide 
as were the resources which she possessed within her- 
self, was somewhat appalled by the position of affairs. 
I fear that it may now be too late for me to excite 
much sympathy in the mind of any reader on behalf 
of Mrs. Proudie. I shall never be able to make her 
virtues popular. But she had virtues, and their ex- 
istence now made her unhappy. She did regard the 
dignity of her husband, and she felt at the present 
moment that she had almost compromised it. She did 
also regard the welfare of the clergymen around her, 
thinking of course in a general way that certain of 
them who agreed with her were the clergymen whose 
welfiaure should be studied, and that certain of them 
who disagreed with her were the clergymen whose 
welfare should be postponed. But now an idea made 
its way into her bosom that she was not perhaps doing 
the best for the welfare of the diocese generally. What 
if it should come to pass that all the clergymen of the 
diocese shoald refose to open their mouths in her pre- 
sence on ecclesiastical subjects, as Dr. Tempest had 
done? This special day was not one on which she 
was well contented with herself, though by no means 
on that account was her anger mitigated against the 
offending rural dean. 

During dinner she struggled to say a word or two 
to her husband, as though there had been no quarrel 
between them. With him the matter had gone so 
deep that he could not answer her in the same spirit 

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There were sondiy members of the fiunfly present, — 
daughters, and a son-in-law, and a daughter's friend 
who was staying with them; but even in the hope of 
appearing to be serene before them he oould not 
struggle through his deep despondence. He was very- 
silent, and to his wife's words he answered hardly 
anything. He was courteous and genlle with them all, 
but he spoke as little as was possible, and during the 
evening he sat alone, with his head leaning on his 
hand, — not pretending even to read. He was aware 
that it was too late to make even an attempt to con- 
ceal his misery and his disgrace from his own family. 

His wife came to him that night in his dressing- 
room in a spirit of feminine softness that was very 
unusual with her. "My dear," said she, "let us forget 
what occurred this morning. If there has been any 
anger we are bound as Christians to forget it" She 
stood over him as she spoke, and put her hand upon 
his shoulder almost caressingly. 

"When a man's heart lis broken, he cannot forget 
it," was his reply. She still stood by him, and still 
kept her hand upon him; but she could think of no 
other words of comfort to say. "I will go to bed," he 
said. "It is the best place for me." Then she left 
him, and he went to bed. 


The Softness of Sir Baffle Baffle. 

We have seen that John Eames was prepared to 
start on his journey in search of the Arabhis, and 
have seen him aft;er he had taken farewell of his office 
and of his master there, previous to his departure; but 

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that matter of his departure had not been arranged 
altogether with comfort as far as his official interests 
were concerned. He had been perhaps a little abrupt 
in his mode of informing Sir BafQe Buffle that there 
was a pressing cause for his official absence, and Sir 
Baffle had replied to him that no private pressure 
could be allowed to interfere with his public duties. 
^^I must go, Sir Raffle, at any rate," Johnny had said; 
"it is a matter affecting my family, and must not be 
neglected." "If you intend to go without leave," said 
Sir Baffle, "I presume you will first put your resigna- 
tion into the hands of Mr. Kissing." Now, Mr. Kissing 
was the secretary to the Board. This had been serious 
undoubtedly. John Eames was not especially anxious 
to keep his present position as private secretary to 
Sir Baffle, but he certainly had no desire to give up 
his profession altogether. He said nothing more to 
the great man on that occasion, bat before he left the 
office he wrote a private note to the chairman ex- 
pressing the extreme importance of his business, and 
begging that he might have leave of absence. On 
the next morning he received it back with a very few 
words written across it. "It can't be done," were the 
very few words which Sir Baffle Baffle had written 
across the note from his private secretary. Here was 
a difflculty which Johnny had not anticipated, and 
which seemed to be insuperable. Sir Baffle would not 
have answered him in that strain if he had not been 
very much in earnest 

"I should send him a medical certificate," said 
CradeU, his friend of old. 

"Non8en8e>" said Eames. 

"I don't see that it's nonsense at all. They can't 

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get over a medical certificate from a respectable man; 
and everybody has got something the matter with him 
of some kind." 

^^I should go and let him do his worst," said 
Fisher, who was another clerk. "It wouldn't be more 
than patting you down a place or two. As to losing 
your present berth you don't mind that, and they 
would never think of dismissing you." 

"But I do mind being put down a place or two," 
said Johnny, who could not forget that were he so 
put down his Mend Fisher would gain the step which 
he would lose. 

"I should give him a barrel of oysters, and talk 
to him about the Chancellor of the Exchequer," said 
FitzHoward, who had been private secretary to Sir 
BafEe before Fames, and might therefore be supposed 
to know the man. 

"That might have done very well if I had not 
asked him and been refused first," said John Fames. 
"I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll write a long letter on 
a sheet of foolscap paper, with a regular margin, so 
that it must come before the Board, and perhaps that 
will Mghten him. 

When he mentioned his difficulty on that evening 
to Mr. Toogood, the lawyer begged him to give up the 
journey. "It will only be sending a clerk, and it 
won't cost so very much after 11," said Toogood. 
But Johnny's pride could not allow him to give way. 
"Tm not going to be done about it," said he. "I'm 
not going to resign, but I will go even though they 
may dismiss me. I don't think it will come to that, 
but if it does it must." His uncle begged of him not 
to think of such an alternative; but this discussion 

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took place after dinner, and away from the office, and 
Eames would not submit to bow his neck to authority. 
^^If it comes to that," said he, ^^a fellow might as well 
be a slave at once. And what is the use of a fellow 
haying a little money if* it does not make him inde- 
pendent? You may be sure of one thing, I shall go; 
and that on the day fixed." 

' On the next morning John Eames was very silent 
when he went into Sir RafiEe^s room at the office. There 
was now only this day and another before that fixed 
for his departure, and it was of course very necessary 
that matters should be arranged. But he said nothing 
to Sir Baffle during the morning. The great man him- 
self was condescending and endeavoured to be kind. 
He knew that his stem refusal had greatly irritated his 
private secretary, and was anxious to show that, though 
in the cause of public duty he was obliged to be stem, 
he was quite willing to forget his sternness when the 
necessity for it had passed away. On this morning, 
therefore, he was very cheery. But to all his cheery 
good -humour John Eames would make no response. 
Late in the afternoon, when most of the men had left 
the office, Johnny appeared before the chairman for 
the last time that day with a very long face. He was 
dressed in black, and had changed his ordinary morn- 
ing coat for a frock, which gave him an appearance 
altogether unlike that which was customary to him. 
And he spoke almost in a whisper, very slowly; and 
when Sir Raffle joked, — and Sir Raffle often would 
joke, — he not only did not laugh, but he absolutely 
sighed. "Is there anything the matter with you, 
Eames?'' asked Sir Raffle. 

**! am in great trouble,'* said John Eames. 

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"And what is your trouble?*' 

"It is essential for the honour of one of my family 
that I should be at Florence by this day week. I can- 
not make up my mind what I ought to do. I do not 
wish to lose my position in the public service, to which, 
as you know, I am warmly attached; but I cannot sub- 
mit to see the honour of my family sacrificed ! " 

"Eames," said Sir BafEe, "that must be nonsense; 
— that must be nonsense. There can be no reason 
why you should always expect to have your own way 
in everything." 

"Of course if I go without leave I shall be dis- 

"Of course you will. It is out of the question 
that a young man should take the bit between his 
teeth in that way." 

"As for taking the bit between his teeth, SirKaffle, 
I do not think that any man was ever more obedient, 
perhaps I should say more submissive, than I have 
been. But there must be a limit to everything." 

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Eames?" said 
Sir Baffle, turning in anger upon his private secretary. 
But Johnny disregarded his anger. Johnny, indeed, 
had made up his mind that Sir Raffle should be very 
angry. "What do you mean, Mr. Eames, by saying 
that there must be a limit? I know nothing about 
limits. One would suppose that you intended to make 
an accusation against me." 

"So I do. I think, SirKaffle, that you are treating 
me with great cruelty. I have explained to you that 
family circumstances — " 

"You have explained nothing, Mr. Eames." 

"Yes, I have, Sir Kaffle. I have explained to you 

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that matters relating to my family, which materially 
affect the honour of a certain one of its members, de- 
mand that I shonld go at once to Florence. You tell 
me that if I go I shall be dismissed/' 

"Of course you must not go without leave. I never 
heard of such a thing in all my life." And Sir Baffle 
lifted up his hands towards heaven, almost in dismay. 

"So I have drawn up a short statement of the cir- 
cumstances, which I hope may be read at the Board 
when the question of my dismissal comes before it" 

"You mean to go, then?" 

"Yes, Sir Baffle; I must go. The honour of a 
certain branch of my feunily demands that«I should do 
so. As I have for some time been so especially under 
you, I thought it would be proper to show you what I 
have said before I send my letter in, and therefore I 
have brought it with me. Here it is." And Johnny 
handed to Sir Baffle an official document of large 

Sir Baffle began to be uncomfortable. He had ac- 
quired a character for tyranny in the public service of 
which he was aware, though he thought that he knew 
well that he had never deserved it. Some official big- 
wig, — perhaps that Chancellor of the Exchequer of 
whom he was so fond, — had on one occasion hinted 
to him that a little softness of usage would be compa- 
tible with the prejudices of the age. Softness was im- 
possible to Sir Baffie ; but his temper was sufficiently 
under his control to enable him to encounter the re- 
buke, and to pull himself up from time to time when 
he found himself tempted to speak loud and to take 
things with a high hand. He knew that a clerk should 
not be dismissed for leaving his office, who could show 

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that his absence had been cansed hj some matter really 
affecting the interest of his family; and that were he 
to drive Eames to go on this occasion without leave, 
Eames wonld be simply called in to state what was 
this matter of moment which had taken him away. 
Probably he had stated that matter of moment in this 
veiy document which Sir BafBe was holding in his 
hand. But Sir Eaffle was not willing to be conquered 
by the document. If it was necessary that he should 
give way, he would much prefer to give way, — out 
of his own good-nature, let us say, — without looking 
at the document at all. ^^I must, imder the circum- 
stances, decKne to read this,'* said he, ^^ unless it should 
come before me officially," and he handed back the 

"I thought it best to let you see it if you pleased,'' 
said John Eames. Then he turned round as thougH 
he were going to leave the room; but suddenly he 
turned back again. "I don't like to leave you, Sir 
Baffle, without saying good-by. I do not suppose we 
shall meet again. Of course you must do your duty, 
and I do not wish you to think that I have any per- 
sonal ill-will against you." So saying, he put out his 
hand to Sir Raffle as though to take a final farewell. 
Sir Raffle looked at him in amazement. He was dressed, 
as has been said, in black, and did not look like the 
John Eames of every day to whom Sir Raffle was ac- 

"I don't understand this at all," said Sir Raffle. 
"I was afraid that it was only too plain," said 
John Eames. 

"And you must go?" 

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"Oh, yes; — that's certain. I have pledged my- 
self to go." 

'^Of course I don't know anything of this matter 
that is so important to your family/' 

"No; you do not," said Johnny. 

'^ Can't you explain it to me, then? so that I may 
have some reason, — if there is any reason." 

Then John told the story of Mr. Crawley, — a 
considerable portion of the story; and in his telling of 
it, I think it probable that he put more weight upon 
the necessity of his mission to Italy than it could have 
fairly been made to bear. In the course of the narra- 
tion Sir Baffle did once contrive to suggest that a 
lawyer by going to Florence might do the business at 
any rate as well as John Eames. But Johnny denied 
this. "No, Sir Baffle, it is impossible; quite impos- 
sible," he said. "If you saw the lawyer who is acting 
in the matter, Mr. Toogood, who is also my uncle, he 
would tell you the same." Sir Baffle had abeady 
heard something of the story of Mr. Crawley, and was 
now willing to accept the sad tragedy of that case as 
an excuse for his private secretary's somewhat insub- 
ordinate conduct "Under the circumstances, Eames, 
I suppose you must go; but I think you should have 
told me all about it before." 

"I did not like to trouble you, Sir Baffle, with 
private business." 

"It is always best to tell the whole of a story," 
said Sir Baffle. Johnny being quite content with the 
upshot of the negotiations accepted this gentle rebuke 
in silence, and withdrew. On the next day he ap- 
peared again at the office in his ordinary costume, and 
an idea crossed Sir Baffle's brain that he had been 

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partly "done" hy the affectation of a costume. "Pll 
be even with him some day yet/* said Sir Raffle to 

"I've got my leave, boys," said Eames when he 
went ont into the room in which his three Mends sat 

"No!" said Cradell. 

"But I have," said Johnny. 

"You don't mean that old Huffle Scuffle has givea 
it out of his own head?" said Fisher. 

"Indeed he has," said Johnny; "and bade God 
bless me into the bargain." 

"And you didn't give him the oysters?" said Fitz- 

"Not a shell," said Johnny. 

"I'm blessed if you don't beat cock-fighting," said 
Cradell, lost in admiration at his Mend's adroitness. 

We know how John passed his evening after that 
He went first to see Lily Dale at her uncle's lodgings 
in Sackville Street, from thence he was taken to the 
presence of the charming Madalina in Porchester Ter- 
race, and then wound up the night with his Mend 
Conway Dalrymple. When he got to his bed he felt 
himself to have been triumphant, but in spite of his 
triumph he was ashamed of himself. Why had he left 
Lily to go to Madalina? As he thought of this he 
quoted to himself against himself Hamlet's often-quoted 
appeal to the two portraits. How could he not despise 
himself in that he could find any pleasure with Mada- 
lina, having a Lily Dale to fill Ins thoughts? "But she 
is not fair for me," he said to himself, — thinking 
thus to comfort himself. But he did not comfort him- 

On the next morning early his uncle, Mr. Toogood| 

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met him at the Dover Eailwaj Station. "Upon my 
word, Johnny, yon're a clever fellow," said he. "I 
never thought that you'd make it all right with Sir 

"As right as a trivet, uncle. There are some people, 
if you can only get to learn the length of their feet, 
you can always fit them with shoes afterwards." 

"You'll go on direct to Florence, Johnny?" 

"Yes; I think so. From what we have heard, Mrs. 
Arabin must be either there or at Venice, and I don't 
suppose I could learn from any one at Paris at which 
town she is staying at this moment" 

"Her address is Florence; — poste restante, Flor- 
ence. You will be sure to find out at any of the 
hotels where she is 8ta3dng, or where she has been 

"But when I have found her, I don't suppose she 
can tell me anything," said Johnny. 

"Who can tell? She may or she may not My 
belief is that the money was her present altogether, 
and not his. It seems that they don't mix their moneys. 
He has always had some scruple about it because of 
her son by a former marriage, and they always have 
different accounts at their bankers'. I found that out 
when I was at Barchester." 

"But Crawley was his friend." 

"Yes, Crawley was his friend; but I don't know 
that fifty-pound notes have always been so very plenti- 
ful with him. Deans' incomes ain't what they were, 
you know." 

"I don't know anything about that," said Johnny. 

"Well; they are not And he has nothing of his 
own, as £ur as I ean learn. It would be just the thing 

Tk9 Last ChrwdOi 0/ Bartet, U, 18 r^^^^r^ 

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for her to do, — to give the money to his finemd. Ai 
any rate she will tell yeu iwhethw it was so or not" 

"And then I will go on to Jemsalem, afeei? him." 

"Should you find it necessary. He will probably 
he on his way hack, and she vill knew where yon can 
hit him on the road. You mu^t make hinn iinderatiuid 
that it is essential that he should be heve some litil^o 
time before the trial. You can understand, Johnny," 
— and as he spoke Mr* Toogopd loweoi?^ his yoice to 
a whisper, though they were walking together on the 
platform of the railway station, and could not possibly 
have been overheard by any one. "You can undorr 
stand that it may be necessiu*y to prove that he is not 
exactly compos oientis^ and if so it vill be essential 
that he should have sqme infijaontial £riend near him. 
Otherwise that bishop will trample him into dust.^^ If Mr. 
Toogood could have seen the bishop at this time and have 
read the troubles of thepoor man's heart, he would hardly 
have spoken of him as being so terrible a 1yrao)t 

"I understand all that,*' said Johnny. 

"So that, in fact, I shall expect to see you both 
together," said Toogood. 

"I hope the dean is a good fWlew." 

^*They tell me he is a very good fellow.'' 

"I never did see much of bishops or deans as yet," 
said Johnny, "and I should feel rather awe*stiruck 
travelling with one." 

"I should fancy that a deim is very much like 
anybody else." 

"But the man's hat would cow me." 

"I daresay you'll find him walking about Jemsalem 
with a wide-awake on, and a big stick in his hand, 
probably smoking a cigar* Deans contrive to. get oiU 

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r of their armour sometunes, as the knights of old used 

to do. Bishops, I hncy^ find it more difficult Well; 

— good-by, old fellow. I'm very much obliged to 
you for going, — I am, indeed. I donH doubt but 
what we shall pull through, somehow.'* 

Hhtfn Mr. Toogood went home to breakfast, and 
from his own* house he proceeded to his of&ce. When 
he had been there an hour or two, there came to him 
a messenger from the Income-tax Office ^ with an offi- 
cial note addressed to himself by Shr Raffle Buffie, — 
a note which looked to be official; Sir Baffie Buffie 
presented his compliments to Mr. Toogood, and could 
Mr. Toogood favour Sir R. B. with the present address 
of Mr. John Eames. "Old fox," s«d Mr. Toogood; 

— "but then such a stupid old fox! As if it was 
likely that I should have peached on Johnny if any- 
thing was wrong." So Mr. Toogood sent his compli- 
ments to Sir Ri^e Buffie, and begged to infosoi Sir 
B. B. that Mr. John Eames was away on very parti- 
cular family business, which would take him in the 
first' h^stance to Florence; — but that from Florence 
he would probably have to go on to Jerusalem without 
the> loss of an hour. "Stupid old fool!" said Mr. 
Toogood, as he sent off hii3 reply by the messeng^. 


Near the Close. 

I WONDER whether any one will read these pages 
who has never known anything of the bitterness of a 
family quarrel? If so, I shall have a reader very 
fortunate, or else very cold-blooded; It would be 
wrong to say that love produces quarrels; but love 

18*^ I 

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276l. the LABI; OHBOmCLE OF BABSSr. 

does produce those intimate relations of which quar- 
relling is too often one of the consequences, — one of 
the consequences which frequently seem to be so na- 
tural, and sometimes seem to be unavoidable. One 
brother rebukes the other, — and what brothers ever 
lived together between whom there was no such re- 
buking? — then some warm word is misunderstood 
and hotter words follow and there is a quarrel. The 
husband tyrannizes, knowing that it is his duty to 
direct, and the wife disobeys, or only partially obeys, 
thinking that a little independence will become her, — 
and so there is a quarrel. The father, anxious only 
for his son's good, looks into that son's future with 
other eyes than those of his son himself, — and so 
there is a quarrel. They come very easily, these 
quarrels, but the quittance from them is sometimes 
terribly difficult Much of thought is necessary before 
the angry man can remember that he too in part may 
have been wrong; and any attempt at such thinking is 
almost beyond the power of him who is carefolly nursing 
his wrath, lest it cool! But the nursing of such quar- 
relling kills all happiness. The veiy man who is 
nursing his wrath, lest it cool, — his wrath against 
one whom he loves perhaps the best of all whom it has 
been given him to love, — is himself wretched as long 
as it lasts. His anger poisons every pleasure of his 
life. He is sullen at his meals, and cannot understand 
his book as he turns its pages. His work, let it be 
what it may, is ill done. He is fiill of his quarrel, — 
nursing it He is telling himself how much he has 
loved that wicked one, how many have been his sacri- 
fices for that wicked one, and that now that wicked 
one is repaying him simply with wickedness I And 

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yet the wicked one is at that very moment dearer to 
him than ever. If th&t wicked one could only be for- 
given how sweet would the world be again! And yet 
he nurses his wrath. 

So it was in these days with Archdeacon Grantly. 
He was very angry with his son. It is hardly too 
much to say that in every moment of his life, whether 
waking or sleeping, he was thinking of the injury that 
his son was doing him. He had almost come to forget 
the fact that his anger had first been roused by ^e 
feeling that his son was about to do himself an injuiy, 
— to cut his own throat. Various other considerations 
had now added themselves to that, and filled not only 
his mind but his daily conversation with his wife. 
How terrible would be the disgrace to Lord Hartletop, 
how incurable the injury to Griselda, the marchioness, 
should the brother-in-law of the one, and the brother 
of the other, marry the daughter of a convicted thief! 
*^0f himself he would say nothing." So he declared 
constantly, though of himself he did say a great deal. 
"Of himself he would say nothing, though of course 
auch a marriage would ruin him in the county." "My 
dear," said his wife, "that is nonsense. That really is 
nonsense. I feel sure there is not a single person in 
the county who would think of the marriage in such a 
light" Then the archdeacon would have quarrelled 
with his wife too, had she not been too wise to admit 
such a quarrel Mrs. Grantly was very wise and knew 
that it took two persons to make a quarrel. He told 
her over and over again that she was in league with 
her son, — that she was encouraging her son to marry 
Grace Crawley. "I believe that in your heart you 
wish it," he once said to her. "No, my dear, I do 

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not wisb it I do not think it a becoming marriage. 
£nt if he does many her, I shonld wish to receive his 
wife in my house, and certainly shonld not quairel 
with him." "I will never receive her," the archdeacon 
had replied; ^^and as for him, I can only say that in 
such CBfie I will make no provision for hb flEunUy." 

It will be remembered that the aschdeacon had on 
a former occasion instructed his wife to write to their 
son and tell him of his father^s determination. Mrs. 
Grantly had so manoeuitnred that a little time had been 
gained, and thai; .those to^mctions had not been in- 
sisted upon in all thek Mttemess. Since that time Major 
Grantly had renewed jds assurance that he would marry 
Grace Crawley if Gbace Crawley would accept him, — 
writing on ihis occasion direct to his father, — and 
had asked his father whether, in such case, he was to 
look forward to be disinherited. "It is essential that 
I should know," the major had said, "because in such 
case I must take immediate measures for leaving this 
place." His father had sent him back his letter, 
writing a few words at the bottom of it "If you do 
as you propose above, you must expect nothing £roin 
me." The words were written in large round hand- 
writing, very hurriedly, and the son when he received 
them perfectly understood the mood of his father's mind 
when he wrote them. 

Then there caane ddiogft, addressed on this occasioa 
to Mrs. Grantly, that Cosby Lodge was to be givea 
up. Lady-day had come, and the notice, necessarily 
to be given at that period, was so given. "I know 
this will grieve you^" Major Grantly had said, "but 
my &ther has driven me to it" This, in itself, was a 
cause of great sorvow, both to the archdeacon and to 

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Mrs. Grantly, as lliere were cirotunstances coAAect^d 
with Oosbj Lodge irhioh made them ihhik that it was 
a very desirable residence for their son. ^I shall sell 
everything about the place and go abroad at once/* he 
said in a sabseqnent letter. ^^My present idea is that 
I aball settle myself at Pan, as my income will stuffice 
for me to live ^ere, and education foir Edsfth will be 
cheap. At any rate I will not continue in England. 
I conld never be happy here in circumstances so 
altered. Of course I should not have lefl my profes- 
sion, unless I had undergto<)>d from my fath^ that tibe 
income arising from it wdnld mat be necessary to me. 
I do not, however, mean to oomplidn, but simply tell 
you that I shall go." There were many letters between 
the mother and son in those days. ^^I shall stay till 
after the teial," he said. ^^If she will then go with me, 
well and good; but whether she will or not, I shall not 
remahi here." All this seemed to Mrs. Grantly to be 
peculiarly unfortunate, for, h^d he not resolved to go, 
things might even yet have rioted themselves. From 
what she could now understand of the character of 
Mits Crawley, whom she did not know personally, she 
thought it probable that Grace, in the event of her 
father being found guilty by the juiy, would absolutely 
and persistently re^e the offer made to her. She 
would be too good, as Mrs. Grantly put it to herself, 
to bring misery and disgrace into another family. But 
ahould Mr. Crawley be acquitted, and should the mar- 
riage then take place, the archdeacon himself might 
probably be got to forgive it In either case there 
would be no necessity for breaking up the house at 
Cosby Lodge. But her dear son Hetiry, her best 
beloved, was obstinate and stiff^ecked, aaid would take 

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no advice. "He is. even worse than his father," she 
sold, in her short-lived anger, to her own father, to 
whom alone at this time she conld unburden her griefs, 
seeking consolation and encouragement. 

It was her habit to go over to the deanery at any 
rate twice a week at this time, and on the occasion of 
one of the visits so made, she expressed very strongly 
her distress at the family quarrel which had come 
among them. The old man took his grandson's part 
through and through. "I do not at all see why he 
should not marry the young lady if he likes her. As 
for money, there ought to be enough without his 
having to look for a wife with a fortune." 

"It is not a question of money, papA." 

"And as to rank," continued Mr. Harding, "Henry 
will not at any rate be going lower than his father did 
when he married you; — not so low indeed, for at 
that time I was only a minor canon, and Mr. Crawley 
is in possession of a benefice." 

"Papa, all that is nonsense. It is, indeed." 

"Very likely, my de^." 

"It is not bedOLse Mr. Crawley is only perpetual 
curate of Hogglestock, that the archdeacon objects to 
the marriage. It has nothing to do with that at all. 
At the present moment he is in disgrace." 

"Under a cloud, my dear. Let us pray that it may 
be only a passing cloud." 

"All the world thinks that he was guilty. And 
then he is such a man: — so singular, so unlike any- 
body elsel You know, papa, that I don't think very 
mnok of money, merely as money." 

"I hope not, my dear. Money is worth thinking 
of, but it is not worth very much diought" 

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^^But it does give advantages, and the absence of 
sucli advantages must be very much felt in the educa- 
tion of a girl. You would hardly wish Henry to 
marry a young woman who, from want of money, had 
not been brought up among ladies. It is not Miss 
Crawley's fault, but such has been her lot. We cannot 
ignore these deficiencies, papa.'' 

"Certainly not, my dear." 

"You would not, for instance, wish that Henry 
should marry a kitchen-maid." 

"But is Miss Crawley a kitchen-maid, Susan?" 

"I don't quite say that." 

"I am told that she has been educated infinitely 
better than most of the young ladies in the neighbour- 
hood," said Mr. ELarding. 

"I believe that her father has taught her Greek; 
and I suppose she has learned something of French at 
that school at Silverbridge." 

"Then the kitchen-maid theory is sufficiently dis- 
posed of," said Mr. Harding, with mild triumph. 

"Tou know what I mean, papa. But the fact is, 
that it is impossible to deal with men. They will 
never be reasonable. A marriage such as this would 
be injurious to Henry; but it will not be ruinous; and 
as to disinheriting him for it, that would be down- 
right wicked." 

"I think so," said Mr. Harding. 

"But the archdeacon will look at it as though it 
would destroy Henry and Edith altogether, while 
you speak of it as though it were the best thing in 
the world." 

"If the young people love each other, I think it 
woald be the best thing in the world," said Mr. Harding. 

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"But, papa, yon eannot but tlui]^ tiiat fats fadier's 
wish should go for somethmg/' said Mrs. Grsnikly, ivdio, 
desirous as ahe was on the one side to support her son, 
could not hear that her husband should, on the other 
side, be declared to be altogether in the wrong. 

"I do not know, my dear," said Mr. Harding; "but 
I do think, that if the two yoling people are fond of 
each other, and if there is anything for them to live 
upon, it cannot be right to keep them apart You 
know, my dear, she is the daughter of a g^Ltlecmaa.** 
Mrs. Orantly upon this left her father almo^ brttibquely, 
without speaking another word on the subject; for, 
though she was opposed to the vehement anger of her 
husband, she could not endure the proposition sow 
made by her father. 

Mr. Harding was at this time living all alone in 
the deanery. For some few yeatrs the deanery had 
been his home, and as his youngest daughter was tbe 
dean^s wife, there could be no more comfortable 
resting-place for the evening of his life. During the 
last month or two the days had gone tediously with 
him; for he had had the large house all to Mmsdf, 
and he was a man who did not love solitude. It is 
hard to conceive that the old, whose thoughts have 
been all thought out, should ever love to live alone. 
Solitude is surely for the young, who have time before 
them for the execution of ^schemes, and who can, there- 
fore, take de%ht in thinking. In these, days the poor 
old man would wander about the rooms, shamUing 
firom one chamber to anotheri and would feel aflhaiiied 
when the servants met him ever on the mova He 
would make little apologies for his uneasiness, ithich 
they would accept graciously, understanding, after a 

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feshion, why it was that he was imeai^. ^^He ain^t 
got nothing to do," said the housemaid to the cook, 
^^and as for reading, ih&y say <&at some of the young 
ones can read all day sometimes, and all night too; 
but, bless you, when you^re nigh eighty, reading don-t 
go for muck" The housemaid was right as to Mr. 
Harding's reading. ^ was not one who had read so 
mudi in his earlier days as to enable him to make 
reading go far with him now ^lat he was near eigbty. 
So he wandered about the room, and sat here iot a few 
minutes, and there for a few minutes, and tb<mgh he did 
not sleep much, he made the hours of the night as many 
as was possible. Every morning he shambled across fi*om 
the deanery to the cathedral, and attended the morning 
service, sitting in the stall which he had occupied for fiffy 
years. The distance was very short, not exceeding, 
indeed, a hnndved yards from a side-door in the deanery 
to another side-door ioito the cathedral; but short as 
it was there had come to be a question whether he 
should be allowed to go alone. It had been feared 
that he might fall em his passage and hurt himself; for 
there was a step here, and a step there, and the light was 
not very good in the purlieus of the old cathedral. A 
word or two had been said once, and the offer of an 
arm to help him had been made*, but be had rejected 
the proffered assistance, --*- softly, indeed, but still 
firmly, — and every day he totteved off by himself, 
hardly lifting his feet as he went, land aiding himself 
on }A% jouraey by a hand upon the wall when he 
thought that nobody was lodldi^ at him. But many 
did fiee him, and they who knew him, — ladies g^ier- 
ally of the dty, -— would oflfer him a hand. Nobody 
was milder In his diriikings than Mr. Harding; but 

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there were ladies in Barchester upon whose arm he 
would always decline to lean, bowing conrteonsly as 
he did so , and saying a word or two of constrained 
civility. There were others whom he wonld allow to 
accompany him home to the door of the deanery , with 
whom he delighted to linger and chat if the morning 
was warm, and to whom he would tell little stories of 
his own doings in the cathedral services in the old 
days, when Bishop Grantly had ruled in the diocese. 
Never a word did he say against Bishop Proudie, or 
against Bishop Proudie's wife; but the many words 
which he did say in praise of Bishop Grantly, — who, 
by his showing, was surely one of the best of church- 
men who ever walked through this vale of sorrow, — 
were as eloquent in dispraise of the existing prelate as 
could have been any more clearly-pointed phrases. 
This daily visit to the cathedral, where he would say 
his prayers as he had said them for so many years, 
and listen to the organ, of which he knew all the 
power and every blemish as though he himself had 
made the stops and fixed the pipes, was the chief oc- 
cupation of his life. It was a pity that it could not 
have been made to cover a larger portion of the day. 
It was sometimes sad enough to watch him as he 
sat alone. He would have a book near him, and for 
a while would keep it in his hands. It would generally 
be some volume of good old standard theology with 
which he had been, or supposed himself to have been, 
conversant from his youth. But the book would soon 
be laid aside, and gradually he would move himself 
away from it, and he would stand about in the room, 
looking now out of a window from which he would 
fancy that he could not be seen, or gazing up at some 

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print which he had known for years; and then he 
would sit down for a while in one chair, and for a 
while in another, while his mind was wandering back 
into old days, thinking of old troubles and remembering 
his old joys. And he had a habit, when he was sure 
that he was not watched, of creeping up to a great 
black wooden case, which always stood in one corner 
of the sitting-room which he occupied in the deanery. 
Mr. Harding, when he was younger, had been a per- 
former on the violoncello, and in tbjs case there was 
still the instrument from which he had been wont to 
extract the sounds which he had so dearly loved. Now 
in these latter days be never made any attempt to 
play. Soon after he had come to the deanery there 
had fallen upon him an illness, and after that he had 
never again asked for his bow. They who were around 
him, — his daughter chiefly and her husband, — had 
given the matter much thought, arguing with them- 
selves whether or no it would be better to invite him 
to resume the task he had so loved; for of all the 
works of his life this playing on the violoncello had 
been the sweetest to him; but even before that illness 
his hand had greatly failed him, and the dean and 
Mrs. Arabin had agreed that it would be better to let 
the matter pass without a word. He had never asked 
to be allowed to play. He had expressed no regrets. 
When he himself would propose that his daughter 
should ''give them a little music," — and he would 
make such a proposition on every evening that was 
suitable, — he would never say a word of those former 
performances at which he himself had taken a part. 
But it had become known to Mrs. Arabin, through the 
servants, that he had once dragged the instrument forth 

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from Its case wben he had thon^t the house to be 
nearly deserted; and a wAil of sounds had been heard, 
very low, very sh(»rt-liYed, recurring now and again 
at fitM intervals. He had at those times attempted 
to play, as though with a muffled bow, — so that none 
should know of his vanity and folly. Then there had 
been Airther consultations at the dean^y, and it had 
been again agreed that it would be best to say nothing 
to him of his music. 

In these latter days of which I «a now speaking 
he would never draw the instrument out of its case. 
Indeed he was aware that it was too heavy f^r him to 
handle without assistance. But he would open the 
prison door, and gaze upon the thing that he loved, 
and he would pass his fingers among the broad strings, 
and ever imd anon he would produce from one of 
them a low, melancholy, almost unearthly sound. And 
then he would pause, never daring to produce two 
such notes in succession, — one dose upon the other. 
And these last sad moans of the old fiddle were now 
known through the household. They were the ghosts 
of the melody of days long past. He imagined tliat 
his viuts to the box were unsuspected, — that none 
knew of the folly of his old fingers which could not 
keep themselves from touching the wires; but the voice 
of the violoncello had been recognized by the servants 
and by his daughter, and when that low wail was 
heard through the house, — like the last dying note 
of a dirge , — they would all know that Mr. Harding 
was visiting his ancient friend. 

When the dean and Mrs. Arabin had first talked 
of going' abroad for a long visit, it had been under- 
i^od that Mr. Harding should pass the period of their 

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absence with his other daughter at Plamstead; but 
when the time came he begged of Mrs. Arabin to be 
allowed to remain in his old rooms. ^^Of course I shall 
go backwards and forwards," he had said. "Tliere is 
nothing I like so much as a change now and then.*' 
The resivlt had be^ that he had gone once to Plum- 
stead daring the d^m's absence^ When he had thus 
remonstra4;ed, begging to be allowed to remain in 
Barchester, Mrs. Arabin had declared her intention of 
giving up her tour. In telling her father of this she 
had not said thai h^ altered purpose had' arisen from 
her disinclination to leaye him alone; — but he had 
perceived that it was so, and had then consented to 
be taken over to Plumstead. There was notMng, he 
said, which he would like so much as going over to 
Plumstead for four or five months. It had ended in 
his having his own way altogether. The Arabins had 
gone upon their tour, and he was left in possession 
of the deanery. ^'I should not Hke to die out of 
Barohester," he said to himself in excuse to himself 
for his disincMnation to sojourn longer under the arch- 
deacon's roof. But, in truth, the archdeacon, who 
loved him well and who, after a foshion, had< always 
been good to him, — who had always spoken of the 
connexion which had bound the two fomilies* together 
as the great blessing of his lifo^ — was too rough in 
his greetings for the old man. Mr. Harding had ever 
mixed something of fear with his warm affection for 
his elder son-in-law, and now in these closing hours 
of his life he could not avoid a oertam amount of 
shrinking from that loud voice, — a certain inaptitude 
to be quite at ease in that commanding presence. The 
dean, his second son-in-law, had been a modem friend 

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in comparison with the archdeacon; but the dean was 
more gentle with him; and then the dean's wife had 
ever been the dearest to him of human beings. It may 
be a doubt whether one of the dean's children was not 
now almost more dear, and whether in these days he 
did not have more free communication with that little 
girl than with any other human being. Her name was 
Susan, but he had always called her Posy, having 
himself invented for her that soubriquet When it had 
been proposed to him to pass the winter and spring at 
Plumstead, the suggestion had been made alluring by 
a promise that Posy also should be taken to Mrs. 
Grantly's house. But he, as we have seen, had re- 
mained at the deanery, and Posy had remained with 

Posy was now five years old, and could talk well, 
and had her own ideas of tilings. Posy's eyes, — 
hers, and no others besides her own, — were allowed 
to see the inhabitant of the big black case; and now 
that the deanery was so nearly deserted, Posy's fingers 
had touched the strings, and had produced an infantine 
moan. "Grandpa, let me do it again." Twang I It 
was not, however, in truth, a twang, but a sound as 
of a prolonged dull, almost deadly, hum-m-m-m-m! 
On this occasion the moan was not entirely infantine^ 
— Posy's fingers having been something too strong, — 
and the case was closed and locked, and grandpapa 
shook his head. 

"But Mrs. Baxter won't be angry," said Posy. Mrs. 
Baxter was the housekeeper in the deanery, and had 
Mr. Harding under her especial charge. 

"No, my darling; Mrs. Baxter will not be angry, 
but we mustn't disturb the house*" 

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"No/' said Posy, with much of important awe in 
her tone; ^Ve mustn't distnrb the house; must we, 
grandpapa?" And so she gave in her adhesion to the 
closing of the case. Bat Posy could play cat's-cradle, 
and 98 cat's-cradle did not disturb ^e house at all, 
there was a good deal of cat's-cradle played in these 
days. Posy's fingers were so soft and pretty, so small 
and deft, that the dear old man delighted in taking 
the strings from them, and in having them taken firom 
his own by those tender little di^ts. 

On the afternoon after the conversation respecting 
Grrace Crawley which is recorded in the early part of 
this chapter, a messenger from Barchester went over 
to Plumstead, and a part of his mission consisted of a 
note from Mrs. Baxter to Mrs. Grantly, beginning, 
"Honoured Madam," and informing M>s. Grantly, 
among other things, that her "respected papa," as 
Mrs. Baxter called him, was not quite so well as usual; 
not that Mrs. Baxter thought there was much the 
matter. Mr. Harding had been to the cathedral service, 
as was usual with him, but had come home leaning 
on a lady's arm, who had thought it well to stay witi 
him at the door till it had been opened for him. After 
that "Miss Posy" had found him asleep, and had been 
unable, — or if not unable, unwilling, to wake him, 
"Miss Posy" had come down to Mrs. Baxter somewhat 
in a fright, and hence this letter had been written. 
Mrs. Baxter thought that there was nothing "to fright" 
Mrs. Grantly, and she wasn't sure that she should have 
written at all only that Dick was bound to go over to 
Plumstead with the wool; but as Dick was going, Mrs, 
Baxter thought it proper to send her duty, and to say 
that to her humble way of thinking perhaps it might 

The Last Ckrmkik af Baratt, JJ. 19 GoOqIc 


be best that Mr. Hajfding shouldn't go alone to the 
cathedral eveiy momii:^. '^If the dear severend gen- 
tleman was to get a tumble, ma'am,^' said the letter, 
"it would be awkward." Then Mrs. Grant^y remem- 
bered that she had left her ^Either almost without a 
greeting on the previous day, and she resolved that 
she would go over very early on the following morning, 
— 60 early that she would be at the deaneiy before 
her father should have gone to the cathedral. 

"fie ought to liave come over here, and not stayed 
there by himself,'* said the archdeacon, when his wife 
told him of her intention. 

"It is too late to think of that now, my dear; and 
one can understand, I think, tihat he should not like 
leaving the cathedral as long as he can attend it The 
truth is he does not like bebg out of Barchester.*' 

"fie would be much better here," said the areb.- 
deacon. "Of course you can have the carriage and 
go over. We can breakfast at eight; and if yon can 
bring him back with you, do. I should tell him that 
he ought to come." Mrs. Grantly made no answer to 
diis, knowing very well that she could not bring her- 
self to go beyond the gentlest persuasion with her 
father, and on the next morning she was at the deaner^r 
by ten o'clock. Half-past ten was the hour at which 
the service began. Mrs. Baxter contrived to meet her 
before she saw her father, and begged her not to let it 
be known that any special tidings of Mr. fiarding's 
failing strength had been sent from the deaneiy to 
Plumstead. "And how is my father?" asked Mrs. 
Grantly. "Well, then, ma'am," said Baxter, "in one 
sense he's finely. He took a morsel of early lamb to 
his dinner yei^rday, and relished Jt ever so well, — 

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only he gave Miss Posy the best part of it And then 
he salt with Miss Posy quite happy for an hour or so. 
AndHien he tdept in his chair; and you know, ma'am, 
we neyer wakes him. And i^er that old Skulpit 
toddled up firom the hospital,'' — this was Hiram's 
Hospkal, of Tdiieh establishnnnt, in the city of 
Barehest^, Mr. Sarding had once been the warden 
and kind master, as has been toM in former chronicles 
of the city, — "and your papa has said, ma'am, you 
know, that he is always to see any of the old men 
when tiiey come up. And Skulpit >is sly, and no 
better tli^ he should be, fmd got money firom your 
father, ma'am, I kno^. And then he had just a drop 
of tea, and after that I took him his glass of port wine 
with my own haaodfl. And it touched me, ma'am, so 
it did, when the said, ^Oh, Mrs. Baxter, how good you 
are*, ^ou know well what it is I like.' And then he 
went to bed. I listened hard, — not from idle our'osity, 
ma'am, as you, who know me, will believe, but just 
because it's becoming to know what he's about, as 
there might be .an accident, you know, ma'am." "You 
are v&cy good, Mrs. Baxter, very good." "Thank ye, 
ma'am, for saying so. And so I listened hard; but he 
didn't go to his music, poor gentleman; and I think 
he had a quiet night. He doesn't sleep much at nights, 
poor gentleman, but he's very ^quiet; leastwise he waa 
last night." This was the bulletin which Mrs. Baxter 
gave to Mrs. Grantly on that monii^g before Mrs. 
Grantly saw her father. 

She found him preparing himself for his visit to 
the cathedral. Some year or two, — hut no jnore, — 
before the date of which we are ^peakii^, he had still 
taken sMse small part in the service; and while he had 

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dDne so he had of course worn his surplice. Living 
BO close to the cathedral, — so close that he could al- 
most walk out of the house into the transept, — he had 
kept his surplice in his own room, and had gone down 
in his vestment. It had been a bitter day to him 
when he had first found himself constrained to abandon 
the white garment which he loved. He had encountered 
some failure in the performance of the slight clerical 
task allotted to him, and the dean had tenderly advised 
him to desist. He did not utter one word of remon- 
strance. ^^It will perhaps be better ,'' the dean had 
said. "Yes, — it will be better," Mr. Harding had 
replied. "Few have had accorded to them the high 
privilege of serving their Master in His house for so 
many years, — though few more humbly, or with lower 
gifts." But on the following morning, and for nearly 
a week afterwards, he had been unable to fac^ the 
minor canon and the vergers, and the old women who 
knew him so well, in his ordinary black garments. At 
last he went down with the dean, and occupied a stall 
close to the dean's seat, — far away from that in which 
he had sat for so many years, — and in this seat he 
had said his prayers ever since that day. And now 
his surplices were washed and ironed and folded and 
put away, but there were moments in which he would 
stealthily visit them, as he also stealthily visited his friend 
in the black wooden case. This was very melancholy, and 
the sadness of it was felt by all those who lived with 
him; but he never alluded himself to any of those bereave- 
ments which age brought upon him. Whatever might be 
his regrets, he kept them ever within his own breast. 

Posy was with him when Mrs. Grantly went up 
into his room, holding for him his hat and stick while 

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NBA& l^HB CIiOSB. 293 

he was engaged in brushing a suspicion of dust from 
his black gaiters. "Grandpapa, here is aunt 8usari," 
said Posy. The old man looked up with something, 
— with some slightest sign of that habitual fear which 
was always aroused within his bosom by visitations 
from Plumstead. Had Mrs. Arabin thoroughly under- 
stood the difference in her father^s feeling toward her- 
self and toward her sister, I think she would hardly 
have gone forth upon any tour while he remained with 
her in the deanery. It is very hard sometimes to know 
how intensely we are loved, and of whatvalue our presence 
is to those who love us! Mrs. Grantly saw the look, — 
did not analyse it, did not quite understand it, — but 
felt, as she had so ofren felt before, that it was not alto- 
gether laden with welcome. But all this had nothing 
to do with the duty on which she had come*, nor did 
it, in the slightest degree, militate against her own af- 
fection. "Papa," she said, kissing him, "you are sur- 
prised to see me so early?" 

"Well, my dear, yes; — but very glad all the 
same. I hope everybody is well at Plumstead?" 

"Everybody, thank you, papa." 

"That is well. Posy and I are getting ready for 
church. Are we not. Posy?" 

"Grandpapa is getting ready. Mrs. Baxter won't 
let me go." 

"No, my dear, no; — not yet, Posy. When Posy 
is a great girl she can go to cathedral every day. 
Only then, perhaps, Posy won't want to go." 

"I thought that, perhaps, papa, you would sit with 
me a little while this morning, instead of going to 
morning prayers." 

"Certainly, my dear, — certainly. Only I do not 

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like not goings — for who can say how <^ten I may 
be able to go agiun? There is so little left, Snaaa, — 
so very little left^" 

After that i^ had not the heart to ask him to stay, 
and therefore she went with him. As they passed 
down the sturs and out of the doors she was astonished 
to find how weak were his footsteps, — how powerless 
he was against the slightest misadventure. On tins 
very day he would have tripped i^ the upward st^ at 
the cathedral door had she not been with him. ^Oh, 
papa,*^ she said, ^^ indeed, indeed, you should not come 
here alona^* Then he apologized for his little stumble 
with many words and much shame, assuring her that 
anybody might trip on an occasion. It was purely an 
accident; and though it was a comlbrt to him to have 
had her anoi, he was sure that he should have recovered 
himself even had he been alone. He always, he said, 
kept quite close to the wall, so that there might be no 
mistake, — no possibility of an accident All thi« he 
said volubly, but wida confused words, in the covered 
stone passage leading into the transit And, as he 
thus spoke, Mrs. Orantly made up her mind that her 
father should never again go to the cathedral alone. 
He never did go again to the cathedral, — alone. 

When they returned to the deanery, Mr. Harding 
was fluttered, weary, and unwell. When his daughtw 
left him for a few minutes he told Mrs. Baxter, is con- 
fidence > the stoiy of his accident, and his great grief 
that his daughter should have seen it ^^ Laws amercy, sir, 
it was a blessing she was with you," said Mrs. Barter; ^'it 
was, indeed, ]\(&. Harding." Then Mr. Handing had been 
angry, and spoke almost crossly to Mrs. Baxter; but, before 
she left the room, he found an opportunity of begging 

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ber pArdoa, -^ iioi ih a soft spe«cfc^ id that effect, but 
hj a little word ef gentla kindness, which she had 
undenliQod per&«tl7i ^Papa," said Mrs. Grantly to 
him ae soon as she* had succeeded in getting both Posj 
a&d Mns. Baxter out of 1^ room^ — ' against the doing 
ef which, Mr. Harding had manoMin*ed with all his 
U^e impoteiMl aikill, — "Papa, you must promise me 
thM you will not go to the cathedral again alone, till 
Me^nor comeft home/*^ When he heard the sentence 
he looked at her wiiib blank mis^y in his eyes. He 
made no attempt at remo&strance. He begged for no 
seapite. The wovd had gcme fortb, and he knew that 
it must be <^yed. Thoi^ he woutd have hidden the 
9ign9 of hisi wteaknesa had he been able, he would not 
condescend to plead that, he was strongt *^If you 
think it wvong, my dear^ I will not go alone," he said. 
"Papa, I do; indeed^ I do. Dear pi^, I would not 
Imrt y<Ki hy saying it if I did not know that I am 
right" He was sitting with his hand upon the table, 
and> as shes apoke to bitt> she put ber hand vpon his, 
caresidng it "My dear," he said, "you are always 

She then left him, 9^9m i^xt »while, having some 
business oni Ia th^ city, aod he waa alone in hie room 
for m howr,. What wa3 th^re left to him now m the 
world? Old as he. wee, aod in- some things almost 
childish^ nevertbelefS, he thougjut ofi this keenly, and 
son^e halfroalized nememJturanCA oi "tbe lean and 
slippered paat^looj*." flitted acrosa his mind, causing 
him a pang. What wa» theire teft to bi« now in the 
world? Poay »»d oatV^radL^I Then^ in the nadst of 
his regrets, aa h^ sat with hi« baqk be«t im his old 
easy-chair, with one ann o^er the shoulder of the chair, 

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296 THB LAar chbokiolb ov babsbt. 

and the other hanging loose hy his side, on a sudden 
there came across his face a smile as sweet as ever 
brightened the face of man or woman. He had been 
able to tell himself that he had no ground for com- 
plaint, — great ground rather for rejoicing and grati- 
tude. Had not the world and all in it been good to 
him; had he not children who loved him, who had 
done him honour, who had been to him always a 
crown of gloiy, never a mark for reproach; had not his 
lines fallen to him in very pleasant places; was it not 
his happ7 fate to go and leave it all amidst the good 
words and kind loving cares of devoted Mends? Whose 
latter days had ever been more blessed than his? And 

for the future ? It was as he iiiought of this 

that that smile came across his face, — as though it 
were already the face of an angel. And then he 
muttered to himself a word or two. "Lord, now lettest 
Thou Thy servant depart in peace. Lord, now lettest 
Thou Thy servant depart in peace." 

When Mrs. Grantly returned she fonnd him in 
jocund spirits. And yet she perceived that he was so 
weak that when he left his chair he could barely get 
across the room without assistance. Mrs. Baxter, indeed, 
had not sent to her too soon, and it was well that the 
prohibition had come in time to prevent some terrible 
accident "Papa," she said, "I think you had better 
go with me to Plumstead. The carriage is here, and I 
can take you home so comfortably." But he would 
not allow himself to be taken on this occasion to Plum- 
stead. He smiled and thanked her, and put his hand 
into hers, and repeated his promise that he would not 
leave the house on any occasion without assistance, 
and declared himself specially thankful to her for com- 

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ing to bim on that special morning; — but be would 
not be taken to Plumstead. ^^Wben the summer 
comes," be said, ^^tben, if you will bave me for a few 

He meant no deceit, and jet be bad told bimself 
witbin tbe last bour tbat be sbould never see anotber 
summer. He could not tell even bis daughter tbat 
after sucb a life as tbis, after more tban fifty years 
spent in tbe ministrations of bis darling cathedral, it 
specially behoved him to die, — as be bad lived, • — 
at Barchester. He could not say tbis to his eldest 
daughter; but bad his Eleanor been at home, he could 
have said it to her. He thought be might yet live to 
see bis Eleanor once again. If this could be given to 
bim be would ask for nothing more. 

On the afternoon of tbe next day, Mrs. Baxter 
wrote another letter, in which she told Mrs. Grrantly 
that her father had declared, at bis usual bour of rising 
that morning, tbat as be was not going to the cathedral 
be would, be thought, lie in bed a little longer. And 
then be bad lain in bed the whole day. ^'And, perhaps, 
honoured madam, looking at all things, it^s best as be 
sbould," said Mrs. Baxter. 


Lady Lofton^s Proposition. 

It was now known throughout Barchester that a 
commission was to be held by tbe bishop's orders, at 
which inquiry would be made, — that is, ecclesiastical 
inquiry, — as to tbe guilt imputed to Mr. Crawley in 
the matter of Mr. Soames's cheque. Sundry rumours 
bad gone abroad as to quarrels which had taken place 

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on the 0abj0ct amos^ effistain, ekofgym^n ligh in of&ee; 
1a«t. thes« wevei isteiplj ntmours, and xM^ikdng was in 
troth knowin. Thene Tvtafi no mone' discreet dergjwuji 
in all the diocese than Dr. Tempest, and not a word 
. had CMicaped feom him as to« the stormy UMtoat of that 
raaeting in the bisiuop's palac*, at ^riuoh ho* had at- 
teftiied with the bishop, ~ and at which Mrs. Brondie 
had attended also. "WhoB it is sand that. Hie fact of this 
coming commiewiioik was known to aU Barsetshire, allu- 
sion IS of course made to thdit poition of the^ inbaJbitan^ 
of Barsetshire to whidi eierioal matters wave dear; — 
and as such matters were speciailly deaor to the in- 
habitaoits of the pariish of FBamley, tike oommisaion was 
discussed very eag9dj in ihaia pariah, and was spedaUj 
discussed hj the Dowager Lady Lufton. 

And tWe was a double intecest attached to the 
commissioB in the parish of Framley by the fact that 
Mr. Borbarts, the ^icas^ had been invited by Dr. Tempeat 
to be one of the clergymen who w^re to aasiat in mak- 
ing the inquiry. ^*I also propose to ask Mxn Oriel of 
Gresbamsbury to join ua," said Dr. Tempee^. "The 
bishop wishes to appoint the other two, and baa abready 
named Mr. Thumble and Mr. Quiyerfal, who are botih 
residents in the city. Perhaps his lordship may be 
right in thinking it better that the matter should not 
be left altogether in the hands of clergymen who hold 
livings in the diocese. You are no doubt aware that 
neithw Mr. Thmnble nor Mr. Qwverffil do hold any 
benefice."' Mr. Bobarts felt, — as everybody elae did 
feel who knew anything of the matter, — that Bisihep 
Proudie was ainguliurly ignorant in his knowledges it 
nien, and that he showed hia igm»ance on this special 
occasion. ^^If he intended to name two such men he 

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should at any rate hare' named thvee^" said Dr. Thome. 
"Mr. Thnmble and Mr. Quiverful will simply be out- 
voted OD the first daj^ and after that will give in their 
adlftemn to the majorifcyr.'*^ ^^Mr. Thumble, indeed!^' 
Lady Lufton had said, with much scorn in her voice. 
To hear thinking, it was absurd in the highest degree 
that such men as Dr. Tempest and her Mr. Robarts 
should be asked to meet Mr. Thumble and Mr. Quiver- 
ful on a matter of ecclesiastical business. Outvoted! 
Of course they would be outvoted. Of course they 
would be so paralyzed by fear at finding themselves in 
the presence of real gentlemen, that they would hardly 
be able to vote at all. Old Lady Lufton did mot in 
fieiet utter words so harsh as these*, but thoughts as harsh 
passed through her mind. The reader therefore will 
understand that much interest was felt on the subject 
at Framley Court, where Lady Lufton lived with her 
son and her daughter-in-law. 

"They tell me," said Lady Lufton, **that both the 
archdeacon and Dr. Tempest lliink it right that a com- 
mission should be held. If so, I have no doubt that it 
is right" 

"Mark says that the bishop could hardly do any- 
thing else," rejoined Mrs. Bobarts. 

"I daresay not, my dear. I suppose the bishop has 
somebody near him to tell him what he may do, and 
what he may not do. It would be terrible to think of, 
if it were not so. But yet, when I hear that he has 
named such men as Mr. Thumble and Mr. Quiverful, 
I cannot but feel that the whole diocese is disgraced." 

"Oh, Lady Lufton, tkat is fueh a strong word," 
said Mrs. Bobarts. 

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^^It maj be strong, but it is not the less true," said 
Ladj Lnfton. 

And from talking on the subject of the Crawlers, 
Lady Lufton soon advanced, first to a desire for some 
action, and then to acting. "I think, my dear, I will 
go over and see Mrs. Crawley," said Lady Lnfton the 
elder to Lady Lufton the younger. Lady Lufton the 
younger had nothing to urge against this; but she did 
not offer to accompany the elder lady. I attempted to 
explain in the early part of this story that there still 
existed a certain understanding between Mrs. Crawley 
and LordLufton^s wife, and that kindnesses occasionally 
passed from Framley Court to Hogglestock Parsonage; 
but on this occasion young Lady Lufton, — the Lucy 
Robarts who had once passed certain days of her life 
with the Crawleys at Ho^lestock, — did not choose 
to accompany her mother-in-law; and therefore Mrs. 
Bobarts was invited to do so. "I think it may com- 
fort her to know that she has our sympathy," the elder 
woman said to the younger as ihey made their journey 

When the carriage stopped before the little wicket- 
gate, from whence a path led through a ragged garden 
from the road to Mr. Crawley's house. Lady Lufton 
hardly knew how to proceed. The servant came to 
the door of the carriage, and asked for her orders. 
"H — ^m — m, ha, yes; I think Til send in my card; — 
and say that I hope Mrs. Crawley will be able to see 
me. Won't that be best; eh, Fanny?" Fanny, other- 
wise Mrs. Bobarts, said that she thought that would be 
best; and the card and message were carried in. 

"It was happily the case diat Mr. Crawley was not 
at home. Mr. Crawley was away at Hoggle End, 

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reading to the brickmakers, or taming the mangles of 
their wiveB, or teaching them theology, or politics, or 
histoiy,' after his fashion. In these dajs he spent, 
perhaps, the happiest hours of his life down at Hoggle 
End. I say that his absence was a happy chance, be- 
cause, had he been at home, he would certainly have 
said something, or done something, to offend Lady 
Lufton. He would either have revised to see her, or 
when seeing her he would have bade her hold her 
peace and not interfere with matters which did not 
concern her, or, — more probable still, — he would 
have sat still and sullen, and have spoken not at all. 
But he was away, and Mrs. Crawley sent out word by 
the servant that she would be most proud to see her 
ladyship, if her ladyship would be pleased to alight. 
Her ladyship did alight, and walked into the parsonage, 
followed by Mrs. Bobarts. 

Grace was with her mother. Indeed Jane had been 
there also when the message was brought in, but she 
fled into back regions, overcome by shame as to her 
frock. Grace, I think, would have fled too, had she 
not been bound in honour to support her mother. Lady 
Lufton, as she entered, was very gracious, struggling 
with all the power of her womanhood so to carry her- 
self tiiat there should be no outwardly visible sign of 
her rank or her wealth, — but not altogether succeed- 
ing. Mrs. Bobarts, on her first entrance, said only a 
word or two of greeting to Mrs. Crawley, and kissed 
Grace, whom she had known intimately in early years. 
^'Lady Lufton," said Mrs. Crawley, *^I am afraid this 
is a very poor place for you to come to; but you have 
known that of old, and therefore I need hardly apolo- 

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^* Sometimes I like poor plaoes best," said Lady 
Lnfton. Then there ^was « pause, after whioh Lady 
Lufton addressed herself 4o Grace, seeking some* snbject 
for immediate oonversadoii. ^^You have been down at 
Allington, my dear, have yon not?" Grace, in a 
whisper, said that she had. ^^ Staying ^with Uife Dales, 
I believe? I know the Dales well by name, and I 
have always heard that they are charming people." 

'^I like them very muc^," said Ghmce. Ami tiien 
there was anodier panse. 

"I hope your husband is pretty well, Mrs. Crawi^?*' 
said Lady Lufton. 

"He is pretty well, — not quite strong. I daresay 
you know, Lady Lufton, that he has diings to vex 
him?" Mrs. Crawley felt that it was the need of the 
moment that the only possible subject "of conv^«ataon 
in that house should be introduced; and therefore she 
brought it in at once, not loving the subject, but being 
strongly conscious of the necessity. Lady Lofton 
meant to be good-natured, and therefore Mrs. Orawley 
would do all in her power to make Lady Lufion's 
mission easy to her. 

"Lideed yes," said hw ladyship; "we do know 

"We feel so much for you and Mr. Orawley," said 
Mrs. Bobarts; "and are so sure that your sufferings aare 
unmerited." This was not ^screet on ^tiie part of Mrs. 
Roborts, as she was the wife of one of the clergynten 
who had been selected to form the commission of in- 
quiry; and so Lady Lufton told her on their way 

"ITou are very kind," said Mrs. Orawley. "We 
must only bear it with such fortitude as God will give, 

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«s. We aro told ^hat He tampers the wind 4o the 
shorn .lainK^' 

^^•And. 60 BEe does, my «kar/' said the 'old ladj, 
very solemBly. "So He does. Sorely yon hwve felt 
that it IB W)?" 

"I struggle itt>t to coifl|flain,'^' said Mrs. Oiiawley. 

"1 know that yon stmggle bravely. I hear of yon, 
and I admire yon for it, and I love yon.^^ It was still 
the old lady who was speaking, and now she had at 
last been ronsed ont of her difficnlty as to words, and 
had risen from her chair, and was standing before Mrs. 
Crawley. "It is 1)ecanse yon do not complain, becanse 
you are so great and so good, becanse yonr character 
is so high, and yonr spirit so firm, that I conld not 
resist the temptation of coming to yon. Mrs. Crawley, 
if yon will let me be yonr Mend, I stall be prond of 
yonr Mendship!.*' 

"Tonr ladyship is too good," said Mrs. Crawley. 

"Do not talk to me after that fashion,^' said Lady 
Lnfton. "If yon do 1 1 shall be disappointed, and feel 
myself thrown back. Yon know what I mean." She 
paused for an answer; but Mrs. Crawley had no answer 
to make. She simply shook her head, not knowing 
why she did so. But we ma^j know. We can under- 
stand that she had felt that the friendship offered to 
her by Lady Lnfton was an impossibility. She had 
decided within her own breast that it was so, though 
she did not know that she had come to such decision. 
"I wish you to take me, at my word, Mrs. Crawley," 
continued Lady Lnfton. "What can we do for you? 
We know that yon are distressed." 

"Yes, — we are distressed." 

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"And we know how cruel drcomstances have beesi 
to you. Will you not forgive me for being plain?" 

"I have nothing to forgive,'' said Mrs. Chrawley. 

^^Lady Lufton means/' said Mrs. Bobarts, ^^that in 
asking you to talk openly to her of your affairs, she 

wishes you to remember that I think you know 

what we mean," said Mrs. Robarts, knowing very well 
herself what she did mean, but not knowing at aU how 
to express herself. 

"Lady Lufton is very kind," said Mrs. Crawley, 
"and so are you, Mrs. Eobarts. I know how good you 
both are, and for how much it behoves me to be grate- 
ftil." These words were very cold, and the voice in 
which they were spoken was very cold. They made 
Lady Lufton feel that it was beyond her power to pro- 
ceed with the work of her mission in its intended spirit. 
It is ever so much easier to proffer kindness graciously 
than to receive it with grace. Lady Lufton had in- 
tended to say, "Let us be women together; — women 
bound by humanity, and not separated by rank, and 
let us open our hearts freely. Let us see how we may 
be of comfort to each other." And could she have 
succeeded in this, she would have spread out her little 
plans of succour with so loving a hand that she would 
have conquered the woman before her. But the suffer- 
ing spirit cannot descend from its dignity of reticence. 
It has a nobility of its own, made sacred by many tears, 
by the flowing of streams of blood from unseen wounds, 
which cannot descend from its dais to receive pitjr and 
kindness. A consciousness of undeserved woe produces 
a grandeur of its own, with which the high-souled sufferer 
will not easily part. Baskets full of eggs, pounds of 
eleemosynary butter, quarters of given pork, even 

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second-hand clothing from the wardrobe of some richer 
sister/' — even money , unsophisticated money, she 
could accept She had learned to know that it was a 
portion of her allotted misery to take such things, — 
for the sake of her children and her husband, — and 
to be thankful for them. She did take them, and was 
thankful; and in the taking she submitted herself to 
the rod of cruel circumstances*, but she could not even 
yet bring herself to accept spoken pity from a stranger 
and to yss the speaker. 

"Can we not do something to help you?" said Mrs. 
Robarts. She would not have spoken but that she per- 
ceived that Lady Lufton had completed her appeal, 
and that Mrs. Orawley did not seem prepared to an- 
swer it 

"Tou have done much to help us," said Mrs, 
Crawley. "The things you have sent to us have been 
very serviceable." 

"But we mean something more than that," said 
Lady Lufton. 

"I do not know what there is more," said Mrs. 
Crawley. "A bit to eat and something to wear; — 
that seems to be all that we have to care for now." 

"But we were afraid that this coming trial must 
cause you so much anxiety." 

"Of course it causes anxiety; — but what can we 
do? It must be so. It cannot be put off, or avoided. 
We have made up our minds to it now, and almost 
wish that it would come quicker. If it were once over 
I think that he would be better, whatever the result 
might be." 

Then there was another lull in the conversation, 
and Lady Lufton began to be afraid that her visit 
Tk* Ltut CknmM$ of Bantt. JL 20 

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would be a fiulure. She thought that perhaps she might 
.get on better if Grace were not in the room, and she 
turned over in her mind various schemes for sending 
her awaj. And perhaps her task would be easier if Mrs. 
Robarts abo could be banished for a time. ^'Fannj, 
mj dear," she said at last, boldly, *^I know you have 
a little plan to arrange with Miss Crawlej. Perhaps 
you will be more likely to be successM if you can 
take a turn with her alone." There was not much 
subtlety in her ladyship^s scheme; but it answered the 
proposed purpose, and the two elder ladies were soon 
left face to face, so that Lady Lumn had a fair pre- 
text for making another attempt. "Dear Mrs. Crawley," 
she said, ^^ I do so long to say a word to you, but I 
fear that I may be thought to interfere." 

^^Oh, no, Lady Lufton; I have no feeling of that 

"I have asked your daughter and Mrs. Sobarts to 

fo out because I can speak more easily to you alone, 
wish I could teach you to trust me." 

"I do trust you." 

^^As a Mend, I mean; — as a real Mend. If it 
should be the case, Mrs. Crawley, that a jury should 
give a verdict against your husband, — what will you 
do then? Perhaps I ought not to suppose that it is 

"Of course we know that is possible," said Mrs. 
Crawley, Her voice was stem, and there was in it a 
tone almost of offence. As she spoke she did not look 
at her visitor, but sat with her face averted and her 
arms akimbo on the table. 

"Yes; — it is possible," said Lady Lufton. "I 
suppose there is not one in the county who doqs not 

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' icADT LxnrxoN^gr pboposition. 307 

trnly wish that it may not he so. But it is right to he 
prepared for all altematiyes. In such case have yoa 
thought what you will do?" 

^^I do not know what ihey would do to him," 
said she. 

*'I suppose that for some tune he would he — " 

"Put in prison," said Mrs. Crawley, speaking very 
quickly, hringing out the words with a sharp eagerness 
that was quite unusual to her. "They will send hun 
to gaol. Is it not so, Lady Lufiton?" 

"I suppose it w,^d he so; not for long I should 
hope; hut I presuiife that such would he the sentence 
for some short period."* 

"And I might not go with him?" 

"No; that would be impossible." 

"And the house, and the living; would they let 
him have them again when he came out?" 

"Ah; that I cannot say. That will depend much, 
prohahly, on what these clergymen will report. I hope 
he will not put himself in opposition to them." 

"I do not know. I cannot say. It is probable 
that he may do so. It is not easy for a man so injured 
as he has been, and one at the same time so great in 
intelligence, to submit himself gently to such inquiries. 
When ill is being done to himself or others he is very 
prone to oppose it" 

"But these gentlemen do not wish to do him ill, 
Mrs. Crawley." 

"I cannot say. I do not know. When I think of 
it I see that there is nothing but ruin on every side. 
What is the use of talking of it? Do not be angry. 
Lady Lufton, if I say that it is of no use." 

"But I desire to be of use, — of real use. If it 


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shonld be the case, Mrs. Oawlej, that jonr hnsbanl 
should be — detained at Barchester — ^** 
"Ton mean imprisoned, Lady Lnfiton.** 
^^Yes, I mean imprisoned. If it should be so, then 
do you bring yourself and your children, — all of 
them, — over to Fraialey, and I will find a home for 
you while he is lost to you." 

"Oh, Lady Lufton; I could not do that" 
"Yes, you can. You have not heard me yet It 
would not be a comfort to you in such a home as that 
to sit at table with people who an^ partly strangers to 
you. But there is a cottage nearly adjoining to the 
house, which you shall have all to yourself. The bai- 
liff lived in it once, and others have lived in it who 
belong to the place; but it is empty now and it shall 
be made comfortable." The tears were now running 
down Mrs. Crawley's face, so t^at she could not answer 
a word. "Of course it is my son's property, and not 
mine, but he has commissioned me to say that it is 
most heartily at your service. He begs that in such case 
you will occupy it And I beg the same. And your old 
friend Lucy has desired me also to ask you in her name." 
"Lady Lufton, I could not do that," said Mrs. 
Crawley through her tears. 

"You nrast think better of it, my dear. I do not 
scruple to advise you, because I am older than you, 
and have experience ^f the world." This, I tldnk, 
taken in the ordinary s6nse of the words, was a boast 
on the part ot Lady Lufton, for which but little tme 
pretence existed. Lady Lufton's experience of the 
world at large was not perhaps extensive. Nevertheless 
she knew what one woman might offer to anoth^, and 
what one woman might receive from another. **You 

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would be better over with me, my dear, tban you 
could be elsewh^e. You will not misunderstand me 
if I say that, under such circumstances, it would do 
your husband good that you and your children should 
be under our protection during his period of temporary 
seclusion. We stand well in the county. Perhaps I 
ought not to say so, but I do not know how otherwise 
to explain myself; and when it is known, by the 
bishop and otibers, that you have come to us during 
that sad time, it will be understood that we think well 
of Mr. Crawley, in spite of anything that a jury may 
say of him. Do you see that, my dear? And we do 
think well of him. I have known of your husband for 
many years, though! have not personally had tdie 
pleasure of much acquaintance with him. He was over 
at Framley once at my request, and I had great occa- 
sion then to respect him. I do respect him; and I 
shall feel gratefal to him if he will allow you to put 
yourself and your children under my wing, as being 
an old woman, should this misfortune fall upon him. 
We hope that it will not fall upon him; but it is al- 
ways well to be provided for the worst" 

In this way Lady Lu^n at last made her speech 
and opened out the proposal with which she had come 
laden to Hogglesto<£. While she was speaking Mrs. 
Crawley's shoulder was still turned to her; but the 
speaker could see that the quick tears were pouring 
themselves down the cheeks of the woman whom she 
addressed. There was a downright honesty of thorough- 
going well-wishing charity about the proposition which 
overcame Mrs. Crawley altogether. Bhe did not feel for a 
moment that it would be possible for her to go to Framley 
in such cirom&stanees as ^ose which had been suggested. 



As she thought of it all at the present moment, it 
seemed to her that her only appropriate home during 
the terrible period which was coming npon her, would 
be under the walls of the prison in which her husband 
would be incarcerated. But she fully appreciated the 
kindness which had suggested a measure, which, if 
carried into execution, would make the outside world 
feel that her husband was respected in the county, de- 
spite the degradation to which he was subjected. She 
felt all this, but her heart was too full to speak. 

"Say that it shall be so, my dear," continued Lady 
Lufton. "Just give me one nod of assent, and the 
cottage shall be ready for you should it so chance that 
you should require it." 

But Mrs. Crawley did not give the nod of assent 
With her face still averted, while the tears were still 
running down her cheeks, she muttered but a word or 
two. "I could not do that. Lady Lufton; I could not 
do that" 

"You know at any rate what my wishes are, and 
as you become calmer you will think of it There is 
quite time enough, and I am speaking of an alternative 
which may never happen. My dear Mend Mrs. Eobarts, 
who is now with your daughter, wishes Miss Crawley 
to go over to Framley Parsonage while this inquiry 
among the clergymen is going on. They all say it is 
the most ridiculous thing in all the world, — this 
inquiry. But the bishop you know is so silly! We 
all think that if Miss Owiwley would go for a week or 
so to Framley Parsonage, that it will show how happy 
we all are to receive her. It should be while Mr. 
Kobarts is employed in his part of the work. What 
do you say, Mrs. Crawley? We at Frandey are all 

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dearly of opinion that it will be best that it should be 
known that the people in the county uphold your hus- 
band. Miss Crawley would be back, you know, be- 
fore the trial comes on. I hope you will let her come, 
Mrs. Crawley?" 

But even to this proposition Mrs. Crawley could 
give no assent, though she expressed no direct dissent. 
As regarded her own feelings, she would much have 
preferred to have been left to live through her misery 
alone; but she could not but appreciate the kindness 
which endeavoured to throw over her and hers in their 
trouble the aegis of first-rate county respectability. She 
was saved from the necessity of giving a direct answer 
to this suggestion by the return of Mrs. Robarts and 
Grace herself. The door was opened slowly, and they 
crept into the room as though they were aware that 
their presence would be hardly welcomed. 

"Is the carriage there, Fanny?" said LadyLufton. 
"It is almost time for us to think of returning home." 

Mrs. Eobarts said that the carriage was standing 
within twenty yards of the door. 

"Then I think we will make a start," said Lady 
Lufton. "Have you succeeded in persuading Miss 
Crawley to come over to Framley in April?" 

Mrs. Robarts made no answer to this, but looked 
at Grace; and Grace looked down upon the ground. 

"I have spoken to Mrs. Crawley," said LadyLufton, 
"and they will think of it." Then the two ladies took 
their leave, and walked out to their carriage. 

"What does she say about your plan?'*' Mrs. Robarts 

"She is too broken-hearted to say anything," Lady 
Lufton answered. "Should it happen diat he is con- 

g.tized by Google 

312 TEH jjlst chbonici^e of babsbt. 

victedy we must come over and take her. She wiU, 
have no power then to resist us in anything." 


Mrs. Dobbs Broughton piles her Fagots. 

The picture still progressed up in Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton's room, and the secret was still kept, or 
supposed to be kept Miss Van Siever was, at any 
rate, certain that her mother had heard nothing of it, 
and Mrs. Broughton reported from day to day that 
her husband had not as yet interfered. Nevertheless, 
there was in these days a great gloom upon the Dobbs 
Broughton household, so much so that Conway Dal- 
rymple had more than once suggested to Mrs. Broughton 
that the work should be discontinued. But the mistress 
of the house would not consent to this. In answer to 
these offers, she was wont to declare in somewhat 
mysterious language, that any misery coming upon 
herself was matter of moment to nobody, hardly even 
to herself, as she was quite prepared to encounter moral 
and social death without delay, if not an absolute phy- 
sical demise; as to which latter alternative, she seemed 
to think that even that might not be so far distant aa 
some people chose to believe. What was the cause ot 
the gloom over the house neither Conway Dalrymple 
nor Miss Van Siever understood, and to speak the 
truth Mrs. Broughton did not quite understand the 
cause herself. She knew well enough, no doubt, that 
her husband came home always sullen, and somettmes 
tipsy, and that things were not going well in the City 
She had never understood much about the City, being 
satisfied with an assurance that had come to her hoL 

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early days from her firiends, that there was a mine of 
wealth in Hook Court, &om whence would always 
come for her use, house and furniture, a carria^ and 
horses, dresses and jewels^ which latter, if not quite 
real, should be manufactured of the best sham sub- 
stitute known. Soon after her brilliant marriage with 
Mr. Dobbs Broughton, she had discovered that die car- 
riage and horses, and the sham jewels, did not lift her 
80 completely into a terresjtrial paradise as she had 
taught herself to expect that they would do. Her 
brilliant drawing-room, with Dobbs Broughton for a 
companion, was not an elysium. But though she had 
found out early in her married life that something was 
still wanting to her, she had by no means confessed to 
herself that the carriage and horses and sham jewels 
were bad, and it can hardly be said that she had re- 
pented. She had endeavoured to patch up matters 
with a little romance, and then had fallen upon Con- 
way Dairy mple, — meaning no harm. Indeed, love 
with her, as it never could have meant much good, 
was not likely to mean much harm. That somebody 
should pretend to love her, to which pretence she 
might reply by a pretence of friendship, — this was 
the little excitement which she craved, and by which 
she had once flattered herself that something of an 
elysium might yet be created for her. Mr. Dobbs 
Broughton had unreasonably expressed a dislike to 
this innocent amusement, — very unreasonably, know- 
ing, as he ought to have known, that he himself did 
so very little towards providing the necessary elysium 
by any qualities of his own. For a few weeks this 
interference from her husband had enhanced the amuse- 
ment, giving an additional excitement to the game* 

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She felt herself to be a woman misunderstood and ill- 
used; and to some women there is nothing so charming 
as a little mild ill-usage, which does not interfere with 
their creature comforts, with their clothes, or their 
carriage, or their sham jewels; but suffices to afford 
them the indulgence of a grievance. Of late, however, 
Mr. Dobbs Broughton had become a little too rough in 
his language, and things had gone uncomfortably. She 
suspected that Conway Dalrymple was not the only 
cause of all this. She had an idea that Mr. Mussel- 
boro and Mrs. Van Siever had it in their power to make 
themselves unpleasant, and that they were exercising 
this power. Of his business in the City her husband 
never spoke to her, nor she to him. Her own fortune 
had been very small, some couple of thousand pounds 
or so, and she conceived that she had no pretext on 
which she could, unasked, interrogate him about his 
money. She had no knowledge that marriage of itself 
had given her the right to such interference; and had 
such knowledge been hers she would have had no 
desire to interfere. She hoped that the carriage and 
sham jewels would be continued to her; but she did 
not know how to frame any question on the subject 
Touching the other difficulty, — the Conway Dal- 
rymple difficulty, — she had her ideas. The tender- 
ness of her friendship had been trodden upon and 
outraged by the rough foot of an overbearing husband, 
and she was ill-used. She would obey. It was be- 
coming to her as a wife that she should submit She 
would give up Conway Dalrymple, and would induce 
him, — fn spite of his violent attachment to herself, 
— to take a wife. She herself would choose a wife 
for him. She herself would, with suicidal hands, destroy 

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the romance of lier own life, since an overbearing, 
brutal husband demanded that it should be destroyed. 
She wouldsac rifice her own feelings, and do all in her 
power to bring Conway Dalrymple and Clara Van 
Siever together. If, after that, some poet did not im- 
mortalize her friendship in Byronic verse, she certainly 
would not get her due. Perhaps Conway Dalrymple 
would himself become a poet in order that this might 
be done properly. For it must be understood that, 
though she expected Conway Dalrymple to marry, she 
expected also that he should be Byronically wretched 
after his marriage on account of his love for herself. 

But there was certainly something wrong over and 
beyond the Dalrymple difficulty. The servants were 
not SiS civil as they used to be, and her husband, when 
she suggested to Um a little dinner-party, snubbed her 
most unmerciftilly. The giving of dinner-parties had 
been his glory, and she had made the suggestion simply 
with the view of pleasing him. "If the world were 
going round the wrong way, a woman would still want 
a party," he had said, sneering at her. "It was of 
you I was thinking, Dobbs," she replied; "not of my- 
self. I care little for such gatherings." After that she 
retired to her own room with a romantic tear in each 
eye, and told herself that, had chance thrown Conway 
Dalrymple into her way before she had seen Dobbs 
Broughton, she would have been the happiest woman 
in the world. She sat for a while looking into vacancy, 
and thinking that it would be very nice to break her 
heart. How should she set about it? Should she take 
to her bed and grow thin? She would begin by eating 
no dinner for ever so many days together. At lunch 
her husband was never present, and therefore the 

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broken heart could be displayed at dinner without 
mach positive mffering. In the meantime she would 
implore Conway Dalrymple to get himself married with 
as little delay as possible, and she would lay npdn him 
her positive order to restrain himself firom any word of 
affection addressed to herself She, at any rate, wonld 
be pure, high-minded, and self-samficing, — although 
romantic and poetic also, as was her nature. 

The picture was progressing, and so also, as it had 
come about, was the love-affair between the artist and 
his model CSonway Dalrymple had begun to tliink 
that he might, after all, do worse than make Clara 
Van Siever his wife. Clara Van Siever was handsome, 
and undoubtedly clever, and Clara Van Siever's mother 
was certainly rich. And, in addition to this, the young 
lady herself began to like the man into whose society 
she was thrown. The affair seemed to flourish, and 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton should have been delighted. 
Bhe told Clara, with a very serious air, tiiat she was 
delighted, bidding Clara, at the same time, to be very 
cautious, as men were so fickle, and as Conway, tliough 
the best fellow in the world, was not, perhaps, alto- 
gether free from that common vice of men. Indeed, 
it might have been surmised, from a word or two which 
Mrs. Broughton allowed to escape, that she considered 
poor Conway to be more than ordinarily afflicted in 
that way. Miss Van Siever at first only pouted, and 
said thiU; there was nothing in it. ^'There is something 
in it, my dear, certainly," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton; 
^^and there can be no earthly reason why th^re e^ould 
not be a great deal in it." "There is nothing in it," 
said Miss Van Sievar, impetuously; "and if yon will 
continue to speak of Mr. Dalrymple in that way, I 

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IIBS. DOfiBS &lU>tjaHTON PltEg BER ^AQOTS. 3l7 

must give up the picture." "As for that," said Mrs. 
Broughton, "I conceive that we are both of us bound 
to the young man now, seeing that he has given so 
much time to the work." "I am not bound to Mm at 
all," said Miss Van Siever. 

Mrs. Broughton also told Conwaj Dalrymple that 
she was delighted, — oh, so much delighted! He had 
obtained permission to come in one morning before the 
time of sitting, so that he might work at his canvas 
independently of his modeL As was his custom, he 
made his own way upstairs and commenced his work 
alone, — having been expressly told by Mrs. Brough- 
ton that she would not come to him till she brought 
Clara with her. But she did go up to the room in 
which the artist was painting, without waiting for Miss 
Van Siever. Indeed, she was at this time so anxious 
as to the future welfare of her two young Mends that 
she could not restrain herself from speaking either to 
the one or to the other, whenever any opportunity for 
such speech came round. To have left Conway Dal- 
rymple at work upstairs without going to him was im- 
possible to her. So she went, and then took the op- 
portunity of expressing to her Mend her ideas as to 
his past and future conduct. 

''Yes, it is very good; very good, indeed," she 
said, standing before the easel, and looking at the 
half-completed work. "I do not know tl»t you ever 
did anything better." 

"I never can tell myself till a picture is finished 
whether it is going to be good or not," said Dal- 
rymple, thinking really of his picture and of nothing 

"T am sure this will be good," she said, "and I 

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suppose it is because you haye tlirown so much heart 
into it. It is not mere industry that will produce good 
work, nor yet skill, nor even genius: more than this 
is required. The heart of the artist must he thrust 
with all its gushing tides into the performance." By 
this time he knew all the tones of her voice and their 
various meanings, and immediately became aware that 
at the present moment she was intent upon something 
beyond the picture. She was preparing for a little 
scene, and was going to give him some advice. He 
understood it all, but as he was really desirous of 
working at his canvas, and was rather averse to having 
a scene at that moment, he made a little attempt to 
disconcert h^, , "It is the heart that gives success," 
she said, while he was considering how he might best 
put an extinguisher upon her romance for the oc- 

"Not at all, Mrs. Broughton; success depends on 

"On what, Conway?" 

"On elbow-grease, — bard work, that is, — and 
I must work hard now if I mean to take advantage of 
to-day's sitting. The truth is, I don't give enough 
hours of work to it." And he leaned upon his stick, 
and daubed away briskly at the background, and then 
stood for a moment looking at his canvas with his 
head a little on one side, as though he could not with- 
draw his attention for a moment from the thing he was 

"You mean to say, Conway, that you would rather 
that I should not speak to you." 

"Oh, no, Mrs. Broughton, I did not mean thajt 

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"I won't interrupt you at your work. What I have 
to say is perhaps of no great moment. Indeed, words 
between you and me never can have much importance 
now. Can they, Conway?" 

*'I don't see that at all," said he, still working 
away with his brush. 

"Do you not? I do. They should never amount 
to more, — they can never amount to more than the 
common, ordinary courtesies of life; what I call the 
greetings and good-byings of conversation." She said 
this in a low, melancholy tone of voice, not intending 
to be in any degree jocose. "How seldom is it that 
conversation between ordinary friends goes beyond 

"Don't you think it does?" said Conway, stepping 
back and taking another look at his picture. " I find 
myself talking to all manner of people about all manner 
of things." 

"You are different from me. I cannot talk to all 
manner of people." 

"Politics, you know, and art, and a little scandal, 
and the wars, with a dozen other things, make talking 
easy enough, I think. I grant you this, that it is very 
often a great bore. Hardly a day passes that I don't 
wish to cut out somebody's tongue." 

"Do you wish to cut out my tongue, Conway?" 

He began to perceive that she was determined to 
odk about herself, and that there was no remedy. He 
dreaded it, not because he did not like the woman, but 
from a conviction that she was going to make some 
comparison between herself and Clara Van Siever. In 
his ordinary humour he liked a little pretence at 
romance, and was rather good at that sort of love- 
Digitized by C3OOQ IC 

320 THB hXBt O&ttOlOOIA 0B> BASSKT. 

making which in tnith mesxiM anything Imt love. Bat 
just now he was really thinking of matrimony, and 
had on this very morning acknowledged to himsdf that 
he had become sufficiently attached to Clara Van Siever 
to justify him in asking her to be his ^fe. In his 
present mood he was not anxious for one of those tilts 
with bhinted swords and half-severed lances in the lists 
of Cupid of which Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was so fond. 
Nevertheless, if she insisted that he should now descend 
into the arena and go through the paraphernalia of a 
mock tourftanent, he must obey her. It is the hard- 
ship of mem that when called upon by women for 
romance, they are bound to be romantic, whether the 
opportunity serves them or does not. A man must 
produce romance, or at least submit to it, when duly 
summoned, even though he should have a sore-throat 
or a headache. He is a brute if he decline stich an 
encounter, — and feels that, should he so decline per- 
sistently, he will ever after be treated as a brute. 
There are many Potiphar's wives who never dream (rf 
any mischief, and Josephs who are very anxious to 
escape, though they are asked to return only whdsper 
for whisper. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had asked Mm 
whether he wished that her tongue should be cut out, 
and he had of course replied that her worde had always 
been a joy to him, — never » trouble. It occurred to 
him as he made his little speech that it would only 
have served her right if be hkd answered her quite in 
another strain; but she was a woumku, and was young 
and pretty, and was entitled to flattery. ^^They have 
always been a joy to me,^' he said, repeating hn last 
Wor(k as he strove to continue his work. 

^*A deadly joy,'' she repMed^ not qwAe knowing 

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what slie herself meant. "A deadly joy, Conway. I wish 
with all my heart that we had never Imawn each other." 

"I do not I will never wish away the happiness 
of my life, even should it be followed by misery.** 

"You are a man, and if trouble comes upon you, 
you can bear it on your own shoulders. A woman 
suffers more, just because another's shoulders may have 
to bear the burden/* 

"When she has got a husband, you mean?** 

"Yes, — when she has a husband." 

"It*s the same with a man when he has a wife." 
EQtherto the conversation had had so much of milk- 
and-water in its composition, that Dalrymple found 
himself able to keep it up and go . on with his back- 
ground at the same time. If she could only be kept 
in the same dim cloud of sentiment, if the hot rays of 
the sun of romance could be kept from hreaking 
through the mist till Miss Van Siever should come, it 
might still be wdl. He had known her to wander 
about within the clouds for an hour together, without 
being able to find her way into the light. "It's all the 
same with a man when he has got a wife," he said. 
"Of course one has to suffer for two, when one, so to 
say, is two." 

"And what happens when one has to suffer for 
three?" she asked. 

"You mean when a woman has children?" 

"I mean nothing of the kind, Conway, and you 
must know that I do not, unless your feelings are in- 
deed blunted. But worldly success has, I suppose, 
blunted them." 

"I rather fan^y not," he said. "I think they are 
pret^ nearly as sharp as ever." 

The Latt Chronid^ of Barset U, Digitiz^y GoOglc 


"I know mine are. Oh, how I wish I could rid 
myself of them! But it cannot be done. Age will not 
blunt them, — I am sure of that/* said Mrs. Broughton. 
"I wish it would." . 

He had determined not to talk about herself if the 
subject could be in any way avoided; but now he felt 
that he wi^s driven up into a comer; — now he was 
forced to speak to her of her own personality. "You 
have no experience yet as to that How can you say 
what age will do?" 

"Age does not go by years," said Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton. "We all know that *BGis hair was grey, 
but not with years.' Look here, Conway," and she 
moved back her Jesses firom off her temples to show 
him that there were gray hairs behind. He did not 
see them; and had they been very visible she might 
not perhaps have been so ready to exhibit them. "No 
one can say that length of years has blanched them. 
I have no secrets from you about my age. One should 
not be grey before one has reached thirty.!* 

"I did not see a changed hair." 

"'Twas the feult of your eyes, then, for there 
are plenty of them. A^i what is it has made them 

"They say that hot rooms will do it" 

"Hot rooms! No, Conway, it does not come from 
heated atmosphere. It comes from a cold heart, a 
chilled heart, a frozen heart, a heart that is all ice." 
She was getting out of the doud into the heat now, 
and he could only hope that Miss Van Siever would 
come soon. "The world is beginning with you, Con- 
way, and yet you are as old as I am. It is ending 
widi me, and yet I am as young as you are. But I 

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do not know why I talk of all this. It is simply folly, 
— utter folly. I had not meant to speak of myself; 
but I did wish to say a few words to you of your 
own future. I suppose I may still speak to you as a 

"I hope you will always do that" 

"Nay, — I will make no such promise. That I 
will always have a Mend's feeling for you, a friend's 
interest in your welfare, a friend's triumph in your suc- 
cess, — that I will promise. But friendly words, Con- 
way, are sometimes misunderstood." 
• "Never by me," said he. 

"No, not by you, — certainly not by you. I did 
not mean that I did not expect that you should mis- 
interpret them." Then she laughed hysterically, — a 
little low, gurgling, hysterical laugh; and after that she 
wiped her eyes, and then she smiled, and then she put 
her hand very gently upon his shoulder. "Thank 
Grod, Conway, we are quite safe there — are we 

He had made a blunder, and it was necessary that 
he should correct it His watch was lying in the trough 
of his easel, and he looked at it and wondered why 
Miss Van Siever was not there. He had tripped, and 
he must make a little struggle and recover his step. 
"As I said before, it shall never be misunderstood by 
me. I have never been vain enough to suppose for a 
moment that there was any other feeling, — not for a 
moment You women can be so careful, while we men 
are always off our guard! A man loves because he 
cannot help it; but a woman has been careful, and 
answers him — with friendship. * Perhaps I am wrong 
to say that I never thought of winning anything more; 

21 * r^ I 

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hut I never think of winning more now." Why the 
mischief didn't Miss Van Siever come! In another five 
minutes, despite himself, he would be on hie knees, 
making a mock declaration, and she would be pouring 
forth the vial of her mock wrath, or giving him mock 
counsel as to the restraint of his passion. He had gone 
through it all before, and was tired of it; but for his 
life he did not know how to help himselfc 

"Conway," said she, gravely, "how dare you ad- 
dress me in such language?" 

"Of course it is very wrong-, I know that" 

"I'm not speaking of myself, now. I have learned 
to think so little of myself, as even to be indifferent 
to the feeling of the injury you are doing me. My 
life is a blank, and I almost think that nothing can 
hurt me further. I have not heart left enough to 
break; no, not enough to be broken. It is not of my- 
self that I am thinking, when I ask you how you dare 
to address me in such language. Do you not know 
that it is an injury to another?" 

"To what other?" asked Conway Daliymple, whose 
mind was becoming rather confused, and who was not 
quite sure whether the other one was Mr. Dobbs Brough- 
ton, or somebody else. 

"To that poor girl who is coming here now, who 
is devoted to you, and to whom, I do not doubt, you 
have uttered words which ought to have made it im- 
possible for you to speak to me as you spoke not a 
moment since." 

Things were becoming very grave and difficult 
They would have been very grave, indeed, had not 
some goi saved him by sending Miss Van Siever to his 
rescue at this moment He was beginning to think 

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what he would say in answer to the accusation now 
made, when his eager ear caught the sound of her step 
upon the stairs; and before the pause in the conversa- 
tion which the circumstances admitted had given place 
to the necessity for further speech, Miss Van Siever 
had knocked at the door and had entered the room. 
He was rejoiced, and I think that M^. Broughton did 
not regret the interference. It is always well that 
these little dangerous scenes should be brought to sud- 
den ends. The last details of such romances, if drawn 
out to their natural conclusions, are apt to be uncom- 
fortable, if not dull. She did not want him to go 
down on his knees, knowing that the getting up again 
is always awkward. 

"Clara, I began to think you were never coming," 
said Mrs. Broughton, with her sweetest smile. 

"I began to think so myself also," said Clara. "And 
I believe this must be the last sitting, or, at any rate, 
the last but one." 

"Is anything the matter at home?" said Mrs. 
Broughton, clasping her hands together. 

"Nothing very much; mamma asked me a question 
or two this morning, and I said I was coming here. 
Had she asked me why, I should have told her." 

"But what did she ask? What did she say?" 

"She does not always make herself very intelligible. 
She complains without telling you what she complains 
of. But she muttered something about artists which 
was not complimentary, and I suppose, therefore, that 
she has a suspicion. She stayed ever so late this morn- 
ing, and we left the house together. She will ask some 
direct question to-night, or before long, and then there 
•will be an end of it" 

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"Let US make the best of our time then," said 
Dalrymple; and the sitting was arranged; Miss Van 
Siever went down on her knees with her hammer in 
her hand, and the work began. Mrs. Broughton had 
twisted a turban round Clara's head, as she always did 
on these occasions, and assisted to arrange the drapery. 
She used to tell herself as she did so, that she was 
like Isaac, piling the fagots for her own sacrifice. 
Only Isaac had piled them in ignorance, and she piled 
them conscious of the sacrifioial^ flames. And Isaac had 
been saved; whereas it was impossible that the catching 
of any ram in any thicket could save her. But, never- 
theless, she arranged the drapery with all her skill, 
piling the fagots ever so high for her own pyre. In 
the meantime Conway Dalrymple painted away, think- 
ing more of his picture than he did of one woman or 
of the other. 

After a while, when Mrs. Broughton had piled the 
fagots as high as she could pile them, she got up from 
her seat and prepared to leave the room. Much of the 
piling consisted, of course, in her own absence during 
a portion of these sittings. "Conway," she said, as 
she went, "if this is to be the last sitting, or the last 
but one , you should make the most of it" Then she 
threw upon him a very peculiar glance over the head 
of the kneeling Jael, and withdrew. Jael, who in 
those moments would be thinking more of the fatigue 
of her position than of anything else, did not at all 
take home to herself the peculiar meaning of her 
friend's words. Conway Dalrymple understood them 
thoroughly, and thought that he might as well take the 
advice given to him. He had made up his mind to 
propose to Miss Van Siever, and why should he not do 

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SO now? He went on with his brush for a couple of 
minutes without saying a word, working as well as he 
could work, and then resolved that he would at once 
begin the other task. "Miss Van Siever," he said, "I'm 
afraid you are tired?" 

"Not more than usually tired. It is fatiguing to 
be slaying Sisera by the hour together. I do get to 
hate this block." The block was the dummy by which 
the form of Sisera was supposed to be typified. 

"Another sitting will about finish it," said he, "so 
that you need not positively distress yourself now. 
Will you rest yourself for a minute or two?" He had 
already perceived that the attitude in which Clara 
was posed before him was not one in which an offer 
of marriage could be received and replied to with ad- 

"Thank you, I am not tired yet," said Clara, not 
changing the fixed glance of national wrath with which 
she regarded her wooden Sisera as she held her ham- 
mer on high. 

"But I am. There; we will rest for a moment." 
Dalrymple was aware that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, 
though she was very assiduous in piling her fagots, 
never piled them for long together. If he did not 
make haste she would be back upon them before he 
could get his word spoken. When he put down his 
brush, and got up from his chair, and stretched out his 
arm as a man does when he ceases for a moment from 
his work, Clara of course got up also, and seated her- 
self. She was used to her turban and her drapery, 
and therefore thought not of it at all; and he also was 
used to it, seeing her in it two or three times a week; 
but now that he intended to accomplish a special pur- 

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pose, the turban and the drapeiy seemed to be in the 
waj. ^^ I do so hope yon -wiR like the pictnie/* he 
said, as he was thinking of this. 

^^I don't think I ahaXL But jon will understand 
that it is natural that a girl should not like herself in 
such a portraiture as that'* 

^'I don't know whj. I can understand that you 
specially should not like the picture; but I think that 
most women in London in your place would at any 
rate say that they did." 

"Are you angry with me?" 

"What; for telling the truth? No, indeed." He 
was standing opposite to his easel, looking at the 
canvas, shifting his head about so as to change 
the lights, and observing critically this blemish and 
that; and yet he was all the while thinking how he 
had best carry out his purpose. "It will have been a 
prosperous picture to me," he said at last, "if it leads 
to the success of which I am ambitious." 

"I am told that all you do is successful now, — 
merely because you do it That is the worst of 

"What is the worst of success?*' 

"That when won by merit it leads to further snc« 
cess, for the gaining of which no merit is necessary." 

"I hope it may be so in my case. If it is not I 
shall have a very poor chance. Clara, I think you 
must know that I am not talking about my pictures." 

"I thought you were." 

"Indeed I am not As for success in my profes* 
sion, far as I am from thinking I merit it, I feel toler- 
ably certain that I shall obtain it" 

"Ton have obtained it" 

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'^I am in the waj to do so. Perhaps one ont of 
ten stragglii^ artists is successfbl, and for him the 
profession is very charming. It is certainly a sad feel- 
ing that there is so mnch of chance in the distribution 
of the prizes. It is a lottery. But one cannot com- 
plain of that when one has drawn the prize." Bal- 
rymple was not a man without self-possession, nor was 
he readily abashed, but he found it easier to talk of 
his possession than to make his o£Per. The turban was 
his difficulty. He had told himself over and oyer 
again within the last five minutes, that he would have 
long since said what he had to say had it not been for 
the turban. He had been painting all his life from 
living models, — from women dressed up in this or 
that costume, to suit the necessities of his picture, — 
but he had never made love to any of them. They 
had' been simply models to him, and now he found 
that there was a difficulty. "Of that prize,'* he said, 
"I have made myself tolerably sure; but as to the 
other prize, I do not know. I wonder whether I am 
to have that" Of course Miss Van Siever understood 
well what was the prize of which he was speaking; 
and as she was a young woman with a will and pur- 
pose of her own , no doubt she was already prepared 
with an answer. But it was necessary that the question 
should be put to her in properly distinct terms. Con- 
way Dalrymple certainly had not put his jquestion in 
properly distinct terms at present. She did not choose 
to make any answer to his last words; and therefore 
simply suggested that as time was pressing he had 
better go on with his work. "I am quite ready now," 
said she. 

"Stop half a moment. How much more you are 

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thinking of the picture than I am! I do not care two- 
pence for the picture. I will slit the canvas from top 
to hottom without a groan, — without a single inner 
groan, — if you will let me." 

*^For heayen^s sake do nothing of the kind! Why 
should 70U?" 

**Ju8t to show you that it is not for the sake of 
the picture that I come here. Clara — " Then the 
door was opened, and Isaac appeared, very weary, having 
heen piling fagots with assiduity, till human nature 
could pile no more. Conway Dalrymple, who had 
made his way almost up to Clara^s seat, turned round 
sharply towards his easel, in anger at having been 
disturbed. He should have been more grateful for all 
that his Isaac had done for him, and have recognized 
the fact that the fault had been with himself. Mrs. 
Broughton had been twelve minutes out of the room. 
She had counted them to be fifteen, — having no 
doubt made a mistake as to three, — and had told 
herself that with such a one as Conway Daliymple, 
with 80 much of the work ready done to his hand for 
him, fifteen minutes should have been amply sufficient 
When we reflect what her own thoughts must have 
been during the interval, — what it is to have to pile 
up such fagots as those, how she was, as it were, 
giving away a fresh morsel of her own heart during 
each minute that she allowed Clara and Conway Dal- 
rymple to remain together, it cannot surprise us that 
her eyes should haVe become dizzy, and that she 
should not have counted the minutes with accurate 
correctness. Dalrymple turned to his picture angrily, 
but Miss Van Siever kept her seat and did not show 
the slightest emotion. 

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"My friends," said Mrs. Broughton, "this will not 
do. This is not working-, this is not sitting." 

"Mr. Dairy mple has been explaining to me the 
precarions nature of an artist's profession," said Clara. 

"It is not precarious with him," said Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton, sententiously. 

"Not in a general way, perhaps; but to prove the 
truth of- his words he was going to treat Jael worse 
that Jael treats Sisera." 

"I was going to slit the picture from the top to the 

"And why?" said Mrs. Broughton, putting up her 
hands to heaven in tragic horror. 

"Just to show Miss Van Siever how little I care 
about it." 

"And how little you care about her, too," said Mrs. 

"She might take that as she liked." After this 
there was another genuine sitting, and the real work 
went on as though there had been no episode. Jael 
fixed her face, and held her hammer as though her 
mind and heart were solely bent on seeming to be 
slaying Sisera. Dalrymple turned his eyes from the 
canvas to the model, and from the model to the canvas, 
working with his hand all the while, as though that 
last pathetic "Clara" had never been uttered; and Mrs. 
Dobbs Broughton reclined on a sofa, looking at them 
and thinking of her own singularly romantic position, 
till her mind was filled with a poetic frenzy. In one 
moment she resolved that she would hate Clara as 
woman was never hated by woman; and then tiiere 
were daggers, and poison-cups, and strangling cords in 
her eye. In the next she was as firmly determined that 

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fllie would love Mrs. Conwaj Dalrymple as woman 
never was loved by woman-, and then she saw herself 
kneeling hj a cradle, and tenderly nursing a baby, of 
which Conway was to be the father and Clara the 
mother. And so she went to sleep. 

For some time Dalrjrmple did not observe this; but 
at last there was a little sound, — even the ill-nature 
of Miss Demolines could hardly have called it a snore, 
— and he became aware that for practical purposes he 
and Miss Van Siever were again alone together. "Clara," 
he said, in a whisper. Mrs. Broughton instantly aroused 
herself from her slumbers, and rubbed her eyes. "Dear, 
dear, dear," she said, "I declare it's past one. I'm 
afraid I must turn you both out One more sitting, I 
suppose, will finish it, Conway?" 

"Yes, one more," said he. It was always under- 
stood that he and Clara should not leave the house 
together, and therefore he remained painting when she 
left the room. "And now, Conway," said Mrs. Broughton, 
"I suppose that all is over?" 

"I don't know what you mean by all being over." 

"No, — of course not. You look at it in another 
light, no doubt Everything is beginning for you. But 
you must pardon me, for my heart is distracted, — 
distracted, — distracted!" Then she sat down upon 
the floor, and burst into tears. What was he to do? 
He thought that the woman should either give him up 
altogether, or not give him up. All this fuss about it 
was irrational! He would not have made love to Clara 
Van Siever in her room if she had not told him to 
do so! 

"Maria," he said, in a very grave voice, "any sacra- 

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fiee that is required on mj part on yonr behalf I am 
ready to make." 

'^No, sir; the sacrifices shall all be made by me. 
It is the part of a woman to be ever sacrificial!" Poor 
Mrs. Dobbs BronghtonI "You shall give up nothing. 
The world is at your feet, and you shall have every- 
thing, — youth, beauty, wealth, station, love, — love ; 
and Mendship also, if you will accept it horn one so 
poor, so broken, so secluded as I shall be." At each 
of the last words there had been a desperate sob; and 
as she was still crouching in the middle of the room, 
looking up into Dalrymple's face while he stood over 
her, the scene was one which had much in it that 
transcended the doings of everyday life, much that 
would be ever memorable, and much, I have no doubt, 
that was thoroughly enjoyed by the principal actor. As 
for Conway Dakymple, he was so second-rate a per- 
sonage in the whole thing, that it mattered little 
whether he enjoyed it or not. I don't think he did 
enjoy it. "And now, Conway," she said, "I will give 
you some advice. And when in after-days you shall 
remember this interview, and reflect how that advice 
was given you, — with what solemnity," — here she 
clasped botii her hands together, — "I think that you 
will follow it Clara Van Siever will now become your 

"I do not know that at all," said Dalrymple. 

"Clara Van Siever will now become your wife," 
repeated Mrs. Broughton in a louder voice, impatient 
of opposition. "Love her. Cleave to her. Make 
her flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone. But 
rule her I Yes, rule her I Let her be your second self^ 
but not your first self. Bule her. Love her. Cleave 

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to her. Do not leave her alone, to feed on her own 
thoughts as I have done, — as I have been forced to 
do. Now go. No, Conway, not a word; I will not 
hear a word. Yon must go, or I must" Then she 
rose quickly from her lowly attitude, and prepared her- 
self for a dart at the door. It was better by far that 
he should go, and so he went 

An American, when he has spent a pleasant day, 
will tell you that he has had " a good time." L think 
that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, if she had ever spoken the 
truth of that day's employment, would have acknow- 
ledged that she had had *^a good time." I think that 
she enjoyed her morning's work. But as for Conway 
Dalrymple, I doubt whether he did enjoy his morning's 
work. "A man may have too much of this sort of 
thing, and then he becomes very sick of his cake." 
Such was the nature of his thoughts as he returned to 
his own abode. 


Why don't yoa have an "it" for yourself? 

Of course it came to pass that Lily Dale and 
Emily Dunstable were soon very intimate, and that 
they saw each other every day. Indeed, before long 
they would have been living together in the same 
house had it not been that the squire had felt reluctant 
to abandon the independence of his own lodgings. 
When Mrs. Thome had pressed her invitation for the 
second, and then for the third time, asking them both 
to come to her large house, he had begged his niece 
to go and leave him alone. ^^You need not regard 
me," he had said, speaking not with the whining voice 

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•WHY don't you have AN "it" FOR YOURSELF? 335 

of complaint, but with that thin tinge of melancholy 
which was usual to him. "I am so much alone down 
at Allington, that you need not mind leaving me.'* 
But Lily would not go on those terms, and therefore 
they still lived together in the lodgings. Nevertheless 
Lily was every day at Mrs. Thome's house, and thus 
a great intimacy grew up between the girls. Emily 
Dunstable had neither brother nor sister, and Lily's 
nearest male relative in her own degree was now Miss 
Dunstable's betrothed husband. It was natural therefore 
that they should at any rate try to like each other. It 
afterwards came to pass that Lily did go to Mrs. 
Thome's house, and she stayed there for awhile; but 
when that occurred the squire had gone back to 

.Ajnong other generous kindnesses Mrs. Thome in- 
sisted that Bernard should hire a horse for his cousin 
Lily. Emily Dunstable rode daily, and of course 
Captain Dale rode with her; — and now Lily joined 
the party. Almost before she knew what was being 
done she found herself provided with hat and habit 
and horse and whip. It was a way with Mrs. Thome 
that they who came within the influence of her im- 
mediate sphere should be made to feel that the comforts 
and luxuries arising from her wealth belonged to a 
common stock, and were the joint property of them all. 
Things were not ofiPered and taken and talked about, 
but they made their appearance, and were used as a 
matter of course. If you go to stay at a gentleman's 
house you understand that, as a matter of course, you 
will be provided with meat and drink. Some hosts 
furnish you also with cigars. A small number give 
you stabling and forage for your horse; and a very- 

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sdect few mount you on hunting days, and send yon 
out with a groom and a second horse. Mrs. Thorne 
went beyond all others in this open-handed hospitality. 
She had enormous wealth at her command, and had 
but few of those all-absorbing drains upon wealth wliich 
in this country make so many rich men poor. She nad 
no family property, — no place to keep up in which 
she did not live. She had no retainers to be maintained 
because they were retainers. She had neither sons nor 
daughters. Consequently she was able to be lavish in 
her generosity; and as her heart was very lavish, she 
would have given her fidends gold to eat had ^old 
been good for eating. Indeed there was no measure 
in her giving, — unless when the idea came upon her 
that the recipient of her favours was trading on them. 
Then she could hold her hand very stoutly. 

Lily Dale had not liked the idea of being fitted 
out thus expensively. A box at the opera was all very 
well, as it was not procured especially for her. And 
tickets for other theatres did not seem to come un- 
naturally for a night or two. But her spirit had 
militated against the hat and the habit and the horse. 
The whip was a little present from Emily Dunstable, 
and that of course was accepted with a good grace 
Then there came the horse, — as though from the 
heavens; there seemed to be ten horses, twenty horses, 
if anybody needed them. All these things seemed to 
flow naturally into Mrs. Thome^s etablishment, like air 
through the windows. It was very pleasant, hut lily 
hesitated when she was told that a habit was to be 
given to her. "My dear old aunt insists," said Emily 
Dunstable. "Nobody ever thinks of refusing anything 
from her. If you only knew what some people will 

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WHT don't TOU have AN "it" FOR TOtJRSELP? 33 T 

take, and some people will even ask, wlio have nothing 
to do with her at all!" ^*Bat I have nothing to do 
with her, — in that way I mean," said Lily. "Oh, 
yes, yoa have,'* said Emily. "You and Bernard are 
as good as brother and sister, and Bernard and I are 
^ good as man and wife, and my aunt and I are as 
good as mother and daughter. So you see, in a sort 
of a way you are a child of the house." So Lily ac- 
cepted ^e habxt; but made a stand at the hat, and 
paid for that out of her own pocket. When the squire 
had seen Lily on horseback he asked her questions 
about it. "It was a hired horse, I suppose?" he said. 
"I think it came direct from heaven," said Lily. "What 
4o you mean, Lily?" said the squire, angrily. "I mean 
that when people are so rich and good-natured as Mrs. 
Thonke it is no good inquiring where things come from. 
All that I know is that the horses come out of Potts' 
livery-stable. They talk of Potts as if he were a good- 
natured man who provides horses for the world without 
troubling anybody." Then the squire spoke to Bernard 
abbut it, saving that he should insist on defraying his 
niece's expenses. But Bernard swore that he could 
give his imele no assistance. "I would not speak to 
her about such a thiiig for all Ihe world," said Bernard. 
'^Tkm I ahaU," said the squure. 

In those days Lily thought much of Johnny Eames, 
-r* gftve to him perhaps more of that thought which 
leads to love than she had ever given him before. She 
still heard the Crawley question discussed every day. 
Mrs. Thomey as we all know, was at this time a Barset- 
shire personage, and was of course interested in Barset- 
shire subjects; and she was specially anxious in the 
matter, haviiig strong hopes with reference to the 

Ths Last Ckronids of Bantt. XT. 22 




marriage of Major QnaQj and Ghface, mnd stremg 
bopes alflo ikat QncffB h£best might eeoife the fimgs 
of jnstica The Crawk7< case ivas aoasfeanlly in lMy*n 
ears, and as oonstantlj she heard high piaiiD asFCurded 
to Johamj f er hk kiadneiw in gdng «ftei the A « ihiTi«> 
^'He mast be a £ne yoang fellow/' laid Mb. Theme, 
'^and well hare him down at GhaUicotas aome da^. 
Old LoYd De Gnest forad him ont and made « Mend 
of him, and okl Lord De finest was Be io6L^ IMy 
was not altogelher free firom a saspioion that Mrs. 
Thome knew the storj of Jofannj's hi/ve and was tiy- 
ing to serve Johnny, — as other peaple had tried to 
do, very ine&ctoally. When this sn^idoin oame npon 
her she would dmt her heart against bur lover's prasses, 
and swear thai she wonld stand hy those two letters 
which she had written in her book at home. Bait the 
suspicion wonld not be always there, and tbne did 
come upon her a conyiotion that her lover was more 
esteemed among men and women ^an she liad been 
accustomed to believe. Her oensin, Benaaid Dale, who 
certainly was regarded in the wodd as somqfbedy, spoke 
of him as his equal; whereas in fbrmer dagym Barnard 
had always regarded Johm^ Eames as atawriing low 
in the woiM's regard. Then Lily, when lalcma, weu^ 
remember a certain comparison which slue once SMide' 
between Adolphns Orosbne and John Skunes, taOien 
neither of the men had as yet pleaded hie caose ^4ier, 
and which had been very nmoh in fWoart of the <feiiMn 
She had Ihen declared that Jolmny was a ^^mere elerh?* ' 
Sl:^ had a higher opinion of Imn now, -^^ manh higher 
opinion, even though he could never l^e jnore 4p iier 
than a fiiaiid. 

In these da^ss lily's «efw» ali^, 6n%i Danstable, 

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seemed to lilj to be so happy! There was in Emily 
a oomplete jrealization of &at idea of ante-nuptial 
blessedness ef which Lily had often ibfoight so imoh. 
WhatoYer IkaUy did she did lor Benuu?d; i^ to give 
Captain Dale bis due, he veoeired all the sweetp which 
w^*e showered upon him with becoming signs of 
gratitade. I suppose it is always the ca«e «t sn«ib times 
thai the girl has die best of it, and <m tUs ooeasion 
Emily Dunstable certainly made the most of her happi- 
ness. "I do" envy yon," Lily said one day. The 
acknowledgment seemed to have been extorted from 
her involuntarily. She did not laogh as she spoke, or 
follow up what she had said with other words intended 
to take away the joke of what she had ntteredi '^- had 
it be^i a joke; but she sat silent, looking at the girl 
who was re-arranging flowers which Bernard had brought 
to hep. 

*^I can't give him np to you, ypu know," said 

**I don'i envy you him, but 'it,' " said Lily. 

"Then go and get an *it' for yourself. Why don't 
you have an *it' for yourself? You can have an 'it' 
to-morrow, if you like, -^ or two or three, tf all that I 
hear is teue," 

'^Noy I can't," said Lily. ''Things have gone 
wrong with me. Don't ask me anything more about it 
Pray don^ I shan't speak of it if you do." 

*'0f ooume I will not if you tell me I must n^et" 

"I do tett you so., I havo been a fpol to say any- 
thing about it. However, I have got over my envy 
now, and am veady to go out vith your aunt Here 
she is." 

"Things haYe gone wrong with me." She repeated 

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the same words to herself over and over again. With 
all the efforts which she had made she could not quite 
reconcile herself to the two letters which she had 
written in the hook. This coming up to London, and 
riding in the Park, and going to the theatres, seemed 
to unsettle her. At home she had schooled herself 
down into quiescence, and made herself think that she 
believed that she was satisfied with the prospects of 
her life. But now she was all astray again, doubting 
about herself, hankering afker something over and 
beyond that which seemed to be allotted to her, — but, 
nevertheless, assuring herself that she never would 
accept of anything else. 

I must not, if I can help it, let the reader suppose 
that she was softening her heart to John Eames be- 
cause John Eames was spoken well of in the world. 
But with all of us , in the opinion which we form of 
those around us, we take unconsciously the opinion of 
others. A woman is handsome because the world says 
so. Music is charming to us because it charms others. 
We drink our wines with other men^s palates, and look 
at our pictures with other men^s eyes. When Lily 
heard John Eames praised by all around her, it could 
not be but that she should praise him too, — not out 
loud, as others did, but in the silence of her heart 
And then his constancy to her had been so perfect! If 
that other one had never come! If it could be that 
she might begin again, and that she might be spared 
that episode in her life which had brought him and 
her togetherl 

^*When is Mr. Eames going to be back?^' Mrs. 
Thome said at dinner one day. On this occasion the 
squire was dining at Mrs. Thome's house; and there 

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WHY don't you have AN "xt" FOR YOURSELF? 341 

were three or four others there, — among them a Mr. 
Harold Smith, who was in Parliament, and his wife^ 
and John Eames's especial Mend, Sir Baffle Baffle. 
The question was addressed to the squire, but the 
squire was slow to answer, and it was taken up hj 
Sir Kaffle Buffle. 

"He'll be back on the 15th," said the knight, "un- 
less he means to play truant I hope he won't do 
that, as his absence has been a terrible inconvenience 
to me." Then Sir Eaffle explained that John Eames 
was his private secretary, and that Johnny's journey 
to the Continent had been made with, and could not 
have been made without, his sanction. "When I came 
to hear the story, of course I told him that he must 
go. *!E2ames,' I said, 'take the advice of a man who 
knows the world. Circumstanced aa you are, you are 
bound to go.' And he went" 

"Upon my word that was very good-natured of 
you," said Mrs. Thome. 

"I never keep a fellow to his desk who has really 
got important business elsewhere," said Sir Baffle. 
"The country, I say, can afford to do as much as that 
for her servants. But then I like to know that the 
business is business. One doesn't choose to be hum- 

"I daresay you are humbugged, as you call it, 
very often," said Harold Smith. 

"Perhaps so; perhaps I am; perhaps that is the 
opinion which they have of me at the Treasury. But 
you were hardly long enough there. Smith, to have 
learned much about it, I should say." 

"I don't suppose I should have known much about 
it| as you call it, if I had stayed till Doomsday." 



"I dftresajr not; I daresay not Men wbo begin 
as kte as you did never know vhat offioW life reaMy 
meand. ISW Fve been at it all my life, and I think 
I do tmderstand it*' 

"It's not a profession I should like unless where 
it's joiued with politics," said Harold Smidi* 

"But then it's apt to be so short," said Sir Raffle 
Bttffte. Now it had happened once in the life of Mr. 
Harold Smith that he had been in a Ministry, but, tm- 
fortunately, that Ministir had gone out almost within 
a week of the time of Mr, SmiUi's adhesion. Sir Baffle 
and Mr. Smith had known each other for many years, 
and were accustomed to make civil little speeches to 
each other in society. 

"I'd sooner be a hoitre in a lOill than have to ^o 
to an office every day," said Ifrs. Smith, coming to 
her husband's assistance. "You, Sir Raffle, have kept 
yourself fresh and pleai^ant through it idl; but who 
besides you ever did?" 

"I hope I am fresh," said Sir Raffle; "and as for 
pleasantness, I will leave that for you to determine." 

"There can be but one opinion," said Mrs. Thome. 

The conversation had strayed away from John 
Eames, and Lily was disappointed. It was a pleasure 
to her when people talked of him in her hearing, and 
as a question or two had been asked about him, 
making him the hero of the moment, it seemed to her 
that he was being robbed of his due when the little 
amenities between Mi*, and Mrs. Harold Smith and Sir 
RafBe banished his name from the circle. Nothing 
more, however, was said of him at dinner, and I fear 
that he would have been altogether forgotten tfurongh- 
out the evening, had not Lily herself referred, 7— ^•t 

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WHY DON*T ton BAV^ AH ^^Tt^ Iton YOURSELF? 343 

rt^ Mm, which sb^ cotild not possibly bave been in- 
duced t«o do, — ^ but to the dnbject of Ids journey. "I 
wondet whedi«r poor Mr. Crawley will be found 
guilty?" she said to Sir BafSe up in the drawing- 

"1 am Jifrftid he will; I am afraid he will," said 
Sir Eaffle-, "an:d I fear, my dear Miss Dale, that I 
must go ftarther than that. I fear I must express an 
opinion that he is guilty." 

"Nothing will ever make me think so," said Lily. 

"Ladies are always tender-hearted," said Sir Raffle, 
*^and especially young ladies, — and especially pretty 
young ladies. I do not wonder that such should be 
your opinion. But you see, Miss Dale, a man of 
business has to look at these things in a business light. 
What I want to know is, where did he get the cheque? 
He is bound to be explicit in answering that before 
anybody can acquit him." 

"That is just what Mr. Eames has gone abroad to 

"It is rety well for Eames to go abroad, — though, 
upon my word, I don't know whether I should not 
liave given him different advice if I had known how 
much I was to be tormented by his absence. The 
thing couldn^t have happened at a more unfortunate 
time; — the Ministry going out, and everything. But, 
as I was saying, it is all very well for him to do what 
he ean. He is related to them, and is bound to save 
the honour of his relations if it be possible. I like 
him for going. I always liked him. As I said to my 
friend D^ Guest, *That young man will make his way.' 
And I rather fancy that the chance word which I 
spoke then to my valued old friend was not thrown 

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away in Earnests favour. But, 1117 dear Miss Dale, 
where did Mr. Crawley get that cheque? That's what 
I want to know. If you can tell me that, then I can 
tell you whether or no he will be acquitted." 

Lily did not feel a strong prepossession in favour 
of Sir EafEe, in spite of his praise of John Eames. 
The harsh voice of the man annoyed her, and his 
egotism offended her. When, much later in the even- 
ing, his character came on for discusidon between her- 
self and Mrs. Thome and Emily Dunstable, she had 
not a word to say in his favour. But still she had 
been pleased to meet him, because he was the man 
with whom Johnny's life was most specially concerned. 
I think that a portion of her dislike to him arose from. 
the fact that in continuing the conversation he did not 
revert to his private secretary, but preferred to regale 
her with stories of his own doings in wonderful cases 
which had partaken of interest similar to that which 
now attached itself to Mr. Crawley's case. He had 
known a man who had stolen a hundred pounds, and 
had never been found out; and another man who had 
been arrested for stealing two-and-sixpence which was 
found afterwards sticking to a bit of butter at die 
bottom of a plate. Mrs. Thome had heard all this, 
and had answered him, ^^Dear me, Sir EafEe," she 
had said, ^^what a great many thieves you have had 
among your acquaintance!" This had rather dis- 
concerted him, and then there had been no more 
talking about Mr. Crawley. 

It had been arranged on this morning that Mr. 
Dale should return to Allington and leave Lily with 
Mrs. Thome. Some special need of his presence at 
home, real or assumed, had arisen, and he had de: 

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WHY don't you have AU "it" FOE YOURSELF ? 345 

cl&red that he must shorten his stay in London by 
about half the intended period. The need wonld not 
have been so pressing, probably, had he not felt that 
Lily would be more comfortable with Mrs. Thome 
than in his lodgings in Sackville Street Lily had at 
first declared that she would return with him, but 
everybody had protested against this. Emily Dun- 
stable had protested against it very stoutly; Mrs.« Dale 
herself had protested against it by letter-, and Mrs. 
Thome's protest had been quite imperious in its nature. 
'^Lideed, my dear, you'll do nothing of the kind. I'm 
sure your mother wouldn't wish it I look upon it as 
quite essential that you and Emily should learn to 
know each other." "But we do know each other; 
don't we, Emily?" said LUy. "Not quite well yet," 
said Emily. Then Lily had laughed, and so the 
matter was settled. And now, on this present occasion, 
Mr. Dale was at Mrs. Thome's house for the last time. 
His conscience had been perplexed about Lily's horse, 
and if anything was to be said it must be said now. 
The subject was very disagreeable to him, and he was 
angry with Bernard because Bernard had declined to 
manage it for him after his own fashion. But he had 
told himself so often that anything was better than a 
pecuniary obligation, that he was determined to speak 
his mind to Mrs. Thome, and to beg her to allow him 
to have his way. So he waited till the Harold Smiths 
were gone, and Sir BafEe Buffle, and then, when Lily 
was apart with Emily, — for Bernard Dale had left 
them, — he found himself at last alone with Mrs. 

"I can't be too much obliged to you," he said, 
"for your kindmess to my girl." 

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''Oh^ lawa, ibat's notfaiBg^'' said Mr8.Tkoiiie. ^^We 
look (m her a» one of us nov/* 

"rm sure she is gtfeteM, — very grstefal; and so 
am I. She and Bernard have been bronglit ap fro 
mnch together that it is veiy desirable that she should 
be not unknown to Bernard's wife." 

"Exactly, — that's just what I mean. Blood^s 
thidker than water; isn't it? Emily's child, if she has 
one, will be Lily's consin." 

"Her first-cousin once removed,*' said the squire, 
who was accurate in these matters. Then he drew 
himself np in his seat and compressed his lips together, 
and prepared himself for his task. It was very dis- 
agreeable. Nothing, he thought, could be more dis- 
agreeable. "I have a little thing to speak about ," he 
said at last, "which I hope will not offend Jrou."" 

"About Lily?" 

"Yes-, about Lily." 

"I'm not very easily offended, and I don't know 
how I could possibly be offended about her," 

"I'm an old-fashioned man, Mrs, Thome, and don't 
know much about the ways of the world. I have 
always been down in the (^ountay, and maybe I have 
prejudices. You won't refuse to humour one of them, 
J hope?" 

"You're beginning to firighten me, Mr. Dale^ what 
is it?" 

"About Lily's horse." 

"L41y's horse! What about het horse? I hope 
he's not vicious?" 

"She IS riding every day with yot» niece," said 
the squire, thinking it best to^stick to his owft pqint. 

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^*It will do b«r aU tbe good in the world," said 
Mrs. Thome. 

"Very likely. I don't douht it I do not in the 
least disapprove her riding. But — *' 

"But what, Mr. Dale?" 

"I should be so much obliged if I might be allowed 
to pay the livery-stable keeper's lull." 

"Oh, laws a' mercy." 

"I daresay it may soimd odd, but as I have a 
fancy about it, Tm sure you'll gratify me." 

"Of course I wilL I'll remember it I'll make 
it all right with Bernard. Bernard and I have no end 
of accounts, — or shall have before long,' — and we'll 
make an item of it Then you can iMrrange with Ber- 
nard aftberwards." 

Mr. Dale, as he got up to go away, felt that he was 
beaten, but he did not know how to carry the battle 
any further on that occasion. He could not take out 
his purse and put down the cost of the horse on the 
table. "I will then speak to my n^hew about it," 
he said, very gravely, as he went away. And he did 
speak to his nephew about it, and even wrote to him 
more than once. But it was all to no purpose. Mr. 
Potts could not be induced to give a separate bill, 
and, — so said Bernard, — swore at last that he would 
furnish no aieoount to anybody for horses that went to 
Mrs. Thome's door except to Mrs. Thome herself. 

That night Lily took leave of her uncle and re- 
mained at Mrs. Thome's house. As things were now 
arranged she would, no do«bt, be in London when 
John Eames retumed. If he should find her in town 
— and she told herself that if she was in town he 
certainly would find her, — he would ^ doubtless, re- 

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peat to her the offer he had 8o often made befoi-e. 
She never ventured to tell herself that she doubted as 
to the answer to be made to him. The two letters 
were written in the book, and mnst remain there. Bat 
she felt that she would have had more courage for 
persistency down at Allington than she would be able 
to summon to her assistance up in London. She knew 
she would be weak, should she be found by him alone 
in Mrs.Thome*s drawing-room. It would be better for 
her to make some excuse and go home. She was re- 
solved that she would not become his wife. She could 
not extricate herself from the dominion of a feeling 
which she believed to be love for another man. She 
had given a solemn promise both to her mother and 
to John Eames that she would not many that other 
man; but in doing so she had made a solemn promise 
to herself that she would not many John Eames. She 
had sworn it and would keep her oath. And yet she 
regretted itl In writing home to her mother the next 
day, she told Mrs. Dale tiiat all the world was speak- 
ing well of John Eames, — that John had won for 
himself a reputation of his own, and was known far 
and wide to be a noble fellow. She could not keep 
herself from praising John Eames, though she knew 
that such praise might, and would, be used against 
her at some future time.. ^'Though I cannot love him 
I will give him his due,*' she said to herself. 

"I wish you would make up your mind to have 
an 4t'for yourself," Emily Dunstable said to her again 
that night; '^a nice 4t,^ so that I could make a friend, 
perhaps a brother, of him." 

"I shall never have an *it,' if I live to be a hun- 
dred," said Lily Dale. 

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Botten Row. 

liiLY had heard nothing as to the difficulty ahout 
her horse, and could therefore enjoy her exercise with- 
out the drawback of feeling that her uncle was sub- 
jected to an annoyance. She was in the habit of 
going out every day with Bernard and Emily Dun- 
stable, and their party was generally joined by others 
who would meet them at Mrs. Thome's house. For 
Mrs. Thome was a very hospitable woman, and there 
were many who liked well enough to go to her house. 
Late in the afternoon there would be a great congre* 
gation of horses before the door, — sometimes as many 
us a dozen; and then the cavalcade would go off into 
the Park, and there it would become scattered. As 
neither Bernard nor Miss Dunstable were unconscion- 
able lovers, Lily in these scatterings did not often 
find herself neglected or lost. Her cousin would gen- 
erally remain with her, and as in those days she had 
XLO '4t"of her own she was well pleased that he should 
do so. 

But it so happened that on a certain afi;emoon she 
found herself riding in Rotten Row alone with a cer- 
tain stout gentleman whom she constantly met at Mrs. 
Thome's house. His name was Onesiphorus Dunn, 
and he was usually called Siph by his intimate friends. 
Jt had seemed to Lily that everybody was an inti- 
mate friend of Mr. Dunn's, and she was in daily fear 
lest she should make a mistake and call him Siph her- 
self. Had she done so it would not have mattered in 
the least Mr. Dunn, had he observed it at all, would 

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neither have been flattered nor angry. A great many 
young ladies about London did eall him Siph, and to 
him it was qnite natural that they should do so. He 
was an Irishman, living on the best of everything in 
the woiid, with apparendy no fortune of his own, and 
certainly never ean^g anything. Everybody liked 
him, and it was admitted on all sides thftt there was 
no Mifer friend in tiiie world, either for young ladies 
or young men, than lb. Onesiphoms Dimn. He did 
not borrow money, and he did not encroach. He did 
like being asked oat to dinner, and he did think that 
they to whom he gave the light of his oouiUenance in 
town owed him ^e letom of a week^s mn in die 
cofontry. He neither shot, nor hmited, nor fished, nor 
read, and yet he was never in the way in any konse^ 
He did play billiards, and whist, and croquet — very 
badly. He was a good j«dge of wine, and would oc- 
casionally condescend to look after the bottling of it 
on behalf of some very intimate firiend. He was a 
great Mend of Mrs. Thoi^e's, with whom he alwayi 
spent ten days in the autumn at Obaldieotes. 

Bernard and £knily were not insatiable lovers, but| 
nevertheless Mrs. Thome had thought it proper to 
provide a fourth in the riding-'parties, and had put 
Mr. Dunn upon this d«ty. '* Don't bothw younelf 
about it, Siph," i^ had aaid; ^'only if those lovers 
should go off philandering out of sight, our little 
country lassie might find herself to be nowhere in the 
Park." Siph had promised to make himself useful, 
and had done so. There had generally been so large 
a number in their party tliat the work imposed on 
Mr. Dunn had been veiy l^ht. lily had never found 
out that he had been especially consigned to her as 

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her own cavalier, but had seen quite enough of him 
to be aware that he was a pkaaukt conpanioiL To 
her, tfiintingy as she evisr was 4lunkui|||, ikeut Jehwoiy 
Eames, Siph was much more agreeable iham might 
have been a younger maawiiei would have endea¥oured 
to make her think about hiBi8el£ 

Thus, when she found henielf riding alone in Bottea 
Row with Siph Dunn, she was neidier disconcerted nor 
dii^ldeased. He had been talkhig to her about Lord 
De Chiiest, whom he had known, *— for Siph knew 
eveiybody, - — and Xiily had begun to wonder whether 
he knew John Eames. She wetdd have liked to hear 
the opmion of such a man abottt John Eames, She 
was making up her mind that she would saj some- 
thing eboat the Crawley mattes, - — not intending of 
course to mention John Eames's nam^, — when sud- 
denly her tongue was paralyaied and she could not 
speak. At that moment they vsve standing near a 
comer, where a turning path made an angle in the 
iron rails, Mr. Dunn having proposed that they should 
wait there for a few minutes before they returned 
home, as it was probable ihat Bttmard and Miss Dun- 
stable m^t come up. Th^ had been there for some 
five or ten minutes, and Lily had asked her first 
question about the Crawlejs, — inquiring of Mr. 
Dnnn whether he had heard ef a terrible accusation 
which had been made against a clergyman in Barset- 
shive, — when on a sudden her tongue was paralyzed. 
As tk^ were standing, Lily's hene was turned towards 
the lUva^ittg patib, whereas Mn Dunn was looking 
the other way, towards AcidUes and Apsley house. 
Mr. Dunn was nearer t^ the raflihgs, but though they 
were 'Aus locdang diffiferent ways, Aiey were so piuted 

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that each cotild see the face of the other. Then, on a 
sudden, coming slowly towards her along the diverging 
path and leaning on the arm of anothw man, she saw, 
— Adolphns Crosbie. 

She had never seen him since a day on which she 
had parted from him with many kisses, — with warm^ 
pressing, eager kisses, — of which she had been nowhat 
ashamed. He had then been to h^ almost as her hus- 
band. She had trusted him entirely, and had thrown 
herself into lus arms with a full reliance. There is 
often much of reticence on the part of a woman to- 
wards a man to whom she is engaged, som^hing also 
of shamefacedness occasionally. There exists a shadow 
of doubt, at least of that hesitation which shows that in 
spite of vows the woman knows that a change may 
come, and that provision for such possible steps back- 
ward should always be within her reach. But Lily 
had cast all such caution to the winds. She had given 
herself to the man entirely, and had determined that 
she would sink or swim, stand or fall, live or die, by 
him and by his truth. He had been as false bs helL 
She had been in his arms, dinging to him, kissing him, 
swearing that her only pleasure in the world was to 
be with him, — with hhn her treasure, her promised 
husband; and within a month, a week, he had been 
false to her. There had come upon her crushing tid- 
ings, and she had for days wondered at herself that 
they had not killed her. But she had lived, and, bid 
foigiven him* She had still loved him, and bad re- 
ceived new offers from him, whidi had been answered 
as the reader knows. But she had never seen him 
since the day on. which she had parted from him at 
Allington, without a doubt as to his faith. Now he 

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BOtTBN BOW. . 353, 

was before W, waUdog on the footpath, almost within 
reach of her whip. 

He did not recognize her, but as he passed on he 
did recognize Mir. Onesiphorus Dunn, and stopped to 
speak to him. Or it might have been that (>osbie's 
fHend Fowler Pratt stopped with this special object, — 
for SiphDumi was an intimate friend of Fowler Pratt^s. 
Croflbie and Siph were also acquainted, but in those 
days Crosbie did not care much for stopping his friends 
in the Park or elsewhere* He had become moody and 
discontented^ and was generally seen going about the 
world alone. On this special occasion he was having 
a Httle i^>ecial conversation about money with his very 
old friend Fowler Pratt. 

"What, Siph, is this you? You're always on horse- 
back now," said Fowler Pratt 

"Well, yes; I have gone in a good deal for cavalry 
work this last month. IVe been lucky enough to have 
a young lady to ride with me." This he said in a 
wh^per, which the distance of Lily justified. "How 
d'ye do, Crosbie? One doesn't often see you on horse- 
baek, or on foot either." 

"I've something to do besides going to look or to 
be looked at," said Crosbie. Then he raised his eyes 
and saw Lily's side-face, and recognized her. Had he 
seen her b^ore he had been stopped on his way I 
think he would have passed on, endeavouring to escape 
obiervadon. But as it was, his feet had been arrested 
before he knew of her dose vicinity, and now it would 
seem that he was afraid of her, and was flying from 
her, were he at once to walk off, leaving his friend 
behind him. And he knew that she had seen him, and 
had recognised him, and was now suffering from his 

Th* Last Chronicle of Baraet JJ. 23 

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presence. He could not bat percdre tkat it was so 
from the fixedness of her face, and from the constrained 
manner in which she gazed before her. His friend 
Fowler Pratt had never seen Miss Dale, though he 
knew very much of her history. Siph Dmm knew 
nothing of the history of Crosbie and his love, and was 
unaware that he and Lily had ever seen each other. 
There was thus no help near her to extricate her frt>m 
her difficulty. 

"When a man has any work to do in the world,*' 
said Siph, "he always boasts of it to his acquaintance, 
and curses his luck to himself. I have nothing to do 
and can go about to see and to be seen; — and I must 
own that I like it" 

"Especially the being seen, — eh, Siph?" said 
Fowler Pratt "I also have nothing on earth to do, 
and I come here every day because it is ast easy to do 
that as to go anywhere else." 

Crosbie was still looking at Lily. He could not 
help himself. He could not take his eyes from off her. 
He could see that she was as pretty as ever, that she 
was but very little altered. She was, in truth, some- 
what stouter than in the old days, but of that he took 
no special notice. Should he speak to her? Should he 
try to catch her eye, and then raise his hat? Should 
he go up to her horse's head boldly, and ask her to 
let bygones be bygones? He had an idea that of all 
courses which he could pursue that was the one wbltk 
she would approve the best, — which would be most 
efficacious for him, if with her anything from him 
might have any efficacy. But he could not do it He 
did not know what words he might best use. Would 
it become him humbly to sue to her for pardon? Or 

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TBOTTElir BOW. 355 

sliouM he striye to express his unaltered love by some 
tone of his voice? Or ahoiild he simply ask her after 
her health? He made one step towards her, and he 
saw that the &ce b^eame more ri^d and more fixed 
ihtak be&re, and dran he desisted. He told himself 
that he waa simply hatefol to her. He thought diat 
he could perceive that there was no tenderness mixed 
with her unabated anger* 

f At this moment Bernard Dale and Emily came 
close upon him, and Bernard saw him at once. It was 
through Bernard that. Lily and Crosbie had come to 
know each other. He and Bernard Dale had been 
fast friends in old times, and had, of course > been 
bitter enemies since the day of Orosbie's treachery. 
They had never spoken since, though they had of);en 
seen each oth^y imd Dale was not at all disposed to 
speak to him now. The moment that he recognized 
(>osbie he looked across to his cousin. For an in- 
stant, an idea had flashed across him that he was thei^e 
by her permission, — with her assent; but it required 
BO iecond glance tp show him that this was not the 
case. "Dunn,'' he said, "I think we will ride on," 
and he put his horse into a trot. Siph, whose ear was 
very accurate, and who knew at once that something 
was wrong, trotted on with him, and Lily, of course, 
was not left behind. "Is there anything the matter?" 
said Emily to her lover. 

"Notlung specially the matter," he replied; "but 
you w^i^ standhig hi company with the greatest black* 
guard that ever lived , and I thought we had better 
change our ground.'' 

"Bernard l" said: LUy, flashing on him with all the 
fire which her eyescoidd command. Then she re-^ 

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membered that she eoold not leprimand him tor Ae 
oSsnce of such nbnse in mnA a oompaa^; fo Ae. reined 
in her hone and fell arweeping. 

Si^ Dunn, with hii wicked de^crnesa, kneer die 
whole story at onoe, rememberiBg! AaJt be had oaoe 
heard something of Cvosbie haying behaved wery ill to 
some one before he marned Lady AlexandrLoa De 
Conrcy. He stopped his horse alao^ Balling a lilde ber 
hind Lily, so that he might not be supposed to have 
seen her tears, and began to hnm a tone. Emily ako^ 
though not wickedly clever, mideratood somethiag^ of 
it ^^ If 'Bernard says anything to make yon angry, I 
will scold him," she said. Then the two girls rode on 
together in front, while Bematd ftli baek wtih Siph 

^^Pratt," said Groslne, putting hjs hand <m his 
friend's shoulder as soon as ihe party had ridden out 
of hearing, ''do you see that girl there in the dark 
Uue habit?*' 

''Whait, the one nearest to the path?" 

''Yes; the one nearest to the path. That is Lily 

"LUy Dale!" said Fowler Pratt 

"Yes; that is LUy Dale." 

"Did you speak to her?" Pratt aeked. 

"No; she gave me no chance. She was thei« but 
a moment But it was herselE lit seeias so odd ta 
me that I should have been thus so near her again." 
If there was any man to whom Crosbie oouU have 
spoken freely about Lily Dale it was this man^ Fowler 
Pratt Pratt was the oldest friend he had in die wedd, 
and it had happened that when he first woke to the 
misery that he bad prepared for himself in throwii^ 

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<pret Lily and betrothing himself to his late wifOi Pratt 
htA been the fiist person to whom he had commoni*' 
eated his sorrow. Not thi^ he had ever been really 
opefx In his eommnnications. It is not given to such 
BMA as Crosbie to speak op^ily of themselves to their 
friends. Nor^ indeed ^ was Fowler Pratt one who was 
fond of listening to such tales. He had no such tales 
to tell of himself, and he thoaght that m^i and women 
ehoold go through the world quietly, not subjecting 
themselves or tibeir acquaintances to anxieties and 
amotions from peculiar conduct. But he was con- 
scientious, and courageous also as well as prudent, and 
he had dared to tell Crosbie that he was behaving very 
badly. He had spoken his mind plainly, and had then 
^ven all the assistance in his power. 

He paused a mom^it before he replied, weighing, 
like a prudent man, the force of the words he was 
about to utter. ^^It is much better as it is,** he said. 
**It is much better that you should be as strangers for 
the future." 

''I do not see that at ail," said Crosbie. They 
were both leaning on the rails, and so they remained 
for the next twenty minutes. ^^I do not see that at 

"I feel sure of it What could come of any re- 
newed intercourse, — even if she would allow it?" 

^^I might make her my wife." 

^^And do you think Uiat you would be happy with 
her, or she with you, after what has passed?" 

''I do think so." 

^'I do not It might be possible that she should 
bring herself to marry you. Woiaen delight to forgive 
injuries. They like fske excitement of generosity. But 

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she could never forget that you had had a former wifei 
or the circmnstances under which jou were married. 
And as for yourself, you would regret it after the first 
month. How could you ever speak to her of your 
love without speaking also of your shame? If a man 
does marry he should at least be aUe to hold up his 
head before his wife." 

This was very severe, but Crosbie showed no 
anger. "I think I should do so," he said, — "after 
a while." 

"And then, about money? Of course you would 
have to tell her everything." 

"Everything — of course." 

"It is like enough that she might not regard that, 
— except that she would feel that if you could not 
afiPord to marry her when you were unembarrassed, you 
can hardly afford to do so when you are over bead 
and ears in debt" 

"She has money now." 

"After all that has come and gone, you would 
hardly seek Lily Dale because you want to marry a 

"You are too hard on me, Pratt You know that 
my only reason for seeking her is that I love her." 

"I do not mean to be hard. But I have a very 
strong opinion that the quarrels of lovers, when they 
are of so very serious a nature, are a bad basis for the 
renewal of love. Gome, let us go and dress for dinner. 
I am going to dine with Mrs. Thome, the millionnair^ 
who married a country doctor, and who used to be 
called Miss Dunstable." 

"I never dine out anywhere now," said Crosbie 
^ud then they walked out of the Park togetilker. 

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. BOTTBH SOW. 359 

Neither of them, of course, knew that Lily Dale was 
staying at the house at which Fowler Pratt was going 
to dine. 

LUy, as she rode home, did not speak a word. She 
would have given worlds to be able to talk, but she 
could not even make a beginning. She heard Bernard 
and Siph Dunn chatting behind her, and hoped that 
they would continue to do so till she was safe within 
the house. They all used her well, for no one tried 
to draw her into conversation. Once Emily said to 
her, "Shall we trot a little, Lily?" And then they 
had moved on quickly, and the misery was soon over. 
As soon as she was upstairs in the house, she got 
!Emily by herself, and explained all the mystery in a 
word or two. "I fear I have made a fool of myself 
That was the man to whom I was once engaged." 
"What, Mr. Crosbie?" said Emily, who had heard the 
whole story from Bernard. "Yes, Mr. Crosbie; pray, 
do not say a word of it to anybody, — not even to 
jour aunt I am better now, but I was such a fooL 
No, dear; I won't go into the drawing-room. I'll go 
upstairs, and come down ready for dinner." 

Whtti she was alone she sat down in her habit, 

. and declared to herself that she certainly would never 
become the wife of Mr. Crosbie. I do not know why 
she should make such a declaration. She had pro- 
mised her mother and John Eames that she would not 
do so, and that promise would certainly have bound 

' ber without any further resolutions on her own part 
But, to tell the truth, the vision of the man had dis- 
enchanted her. ; When last she had seen him he had 
been as it were a god to her; and though, since that 
day, his conduct to her had been as ungodlike as it 

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^ell might be, still the memory of the outward signs 
of hk diyiniiy had remained with her. It is d^cnlt 
to explain how it had come to pass that the glimpse 
'which she had had of him should hare alteired so much 
within her mind; — why she should so suddenly have 
come to regard him in an altered light It was not 
simply that he looked to be older, and because his 
face was careworn. It was not only that he had lost 
that look of an Apollo which Lily had once in her 
mirth attributed to him. I think it was chiefly that 
she herself was older, and could no longer see a god 
in such a man. She had never regarded John Eames 
as being gifted with divinity, and had therefore always 
been making comparisons to his discredit Any such 
tsomparison now would tend quite the o&er way. 
Nevertheless she would adhere to the two letters in her 
l)ook. Since she had seen Mr. Crosbie she was alto- 
gether out of love with the prospect of matrimony. 

She was in the room when Mr. Pratt was an- 
nounced, and she at once recognised him as ^ke man 
who had been with Crosbie. And when, some minutes 
afterwards, Siph Dunn came into the room, she eouUL 
see that in their greeting allusion was made to the 
scene in the Pi»*k. But still it was probable that tUs man 
would not recognize her, and, if he did so, irhat would 
it matter? There were twenty people to sit down to 
dinner, and the chances were tLat she would not be 
called upon to exchange a word with Mr. Pratt She 
had now recovered herself, and could Bpeak freely to 
her friend Siph, and when Si^ came and stood near 
her she t^ai^ed him graciously for his escort in the 
Park. "If it wasn't for you, Mr. Dunn, I really think 
I should not get any riding at all. Bernard and tfiss 

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Dunstable have only one thing to think about, and 
eertainly I am not that one thing." She thought it 
prdbable that if she could ke^ Siph dose to her, lira. 
Thome, who always managed those things herself, 
might apportion her out to be led to dinner bj her 
good-natured friend. But the fates were ayerse. The 
time had now come, and Lily was waiting her turn. 
^^Mr. Fowler Pratt, let me introduce you to Miss Lily 
Dale," said Mrs. Thome. Lily could perceive Ihat 
Mr. Pratt was startled. The sign he gave was the 
least possible sign in the world; but still it sufficed for 
lily to perceive it She put her hand upon his arm, 
and walked down with him to the dining-room without 
giving him the slightest cause to suppose that she knew 
who he was. 

**I think I saw you in the Park riding?'* he said. 

"Yes, I was there; we go nearly every day." 

^*I never ride; I was walking." 

^'It seems to me that the people don't go there to 
walk, but to stand still," said Lily. ^^I cannot under- 
stand how so many people can bear to loiter about in 
that way — leaning on the rails and doing nothing." 

"It is about as good as the riding, and costs less 
money. That is all that can be said for it Do you 
live chiefly in town?" 

"0 dear, no; I live altogether in the country. Tm 
only up here because a cousin is going to be married." 

^'Captain Dale you mean — to Miss Dunstable?" 
said Fowler Pratt 

'^When they have been joined together in holy 
'matrimony, I shall go down to the country, and nevcfi 
1 suppose, come up to London again." 

''Tou do not like London?" 

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"Not as a residence, I think/' said Lily. "But of 
course one's likings and dislikings on suck a matter 
depend on circumstances. I live with my mother, and 
all my relatives live near us. Of course I like the 
country best, because ihej are there.*' 

"Young ladies so often have a different way of 
looking at this subject I shouldn't wonder if Miss 
Dunstable's views about it were altogether of another 
sort Young ladies generally expect to be taken away 
from their fathers and mothers, and uncles and aunts." 

"But you see I expect to be left with mine," said 
Lily. After that she turned as much away from Mr. 
Fowler Pratt as she could, having taken an aversion 
to him. What business had he to talk to her about 
being taken away from her uncles and aunts? She 
had seen him with Mr. Crosbie, and it might be pos- 
sible that they were intimate friends. It might be that 
Mr. Pratt was asking questions in Mr. Orosbie's in- 
terest Let that be as it might, she would answer no 
more questions from him farther than ordinary good 
breeding should require of her. 

"She is a nice girl, certainly," said Fowler Pratt 
to himself, as he wi^ed home, "and I have no doubt 
would make a good, ordinary, every-day wife. But she 
is not such a paragon that a man should condescend 
to grovel in the dirt for her." 

That night Lily told Emily Dunstable the whole of 
Mr. Crosbie's history as far as she knew it, and also 
explained her new aversion to Mr. Fowler Pratt "They 
are very great friends," said Emily. "Bernard has told 
me so; and you may be sure that Mr. Pratt knew the 
whole history before he came here. I am so sony that 
my aunt asked him." 

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"It does not signify in the least," said Lily. "Even 
if I were to meet Mr. Crosbie I don*t think I should 
make snch a fool of myself again. As it is, I can 
only hope he did not see it" 

"I am sure he did not." ' 

Then there was a pause, during which Lily sat 
with her face resting on both her hands. "It is wonder- 
ful how much he is altered," she said at last 

"Think how much he has suffered." 

"I suppose I am altered as much, only I do not see 
it in myself." 

"I don^t know what you were, but I don^t think 
you can have changed much. You no doubt have 
suffered too, but not as he has done." 

"Oh, as for that, I have done very welL I think 
1*11 go to bed now. The riding makes me so sleepy." 


The Clerical Commiasion. 

It was at last arranged that the five clergymen 
selected should meet at Dr. Tempest's house in Silver- 
bridge to make inquiry and report to the bishop 
whether the circumstances connected with the cheque 
for twenty pounds were of such a nature as to make 
it incumbent on him to institute proceedings against 
Mr. Crawley in the Court of Arches. Dr. Tempest 
had acted upon the letter which he had received from 
the bishop, exactly as though there had been no meet- 
ing at the palace, no quarrel to the death between him 
and Hrs. Proudie. He was a prudent man, gifted 
with the great power of holding his tongue, and had 
not spoken a w^d, even to his wife, of what had oo- 

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curred. After suet a victory our old friend the arch- 
deacon w^d have blown his own InUn^ loudly 
: amongr his fritods* Flumstead would ha^e heard of it 
instantly, and the paean would have been sung out iti 
the neighbouring parishes of Eiderdown, 8togpingam, 
and Bt liWolds. The high-street of Barchester would 
have known of it, and the veiy bedesmen in Hiram^s 
Hospital would have told among themselves the terrible 
discomfiture of the bishop and his lady. But Dr. Tempest 
'spoke no word of it to anybody* He wrote letters to 
the two clergymen named by the bishop, and himself 
selected two others out of his own rural deanery, and 
suggested to them all a day at which a preliminary 
meeting should be held at his own house. The two 
who were invited by him were Mr. Oriel, the rector of 
Greshamsbury, and Mr, Bobarts, the vicar of Framley. 
They all assented to the proposition, and on the day 
named assembled themselves at Silverbridge. 

It was now April, and the judges were to come 
into Barchester before the end of the month. What 
then could be the use of this ecclesiastical inq[uiry 
exactly at the same time? Men and women declared 
that it was a double prosecution, and that a double 
prosecution for the same offence was a course of action 
opposed to the feelings and traditions of the country. 
Miss Anne Prettyman went so far as to say Ihat it was 
unconstitutional, and Mary Walk^ declared that no 
human being except Mrs. Proudie would ever have 
been guihy of such cruelty. "Don't tdl me about the 
bishop, John," le^e said; "the bishop is a cyfAw." 
"Tou may be sure Dr. Tempest would not have a hand 
In it if it were not right,'* said John Walker. "My 
dear Mr. John," said Miss Anne Prettyman, "Dr, 

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Tempest i» as hiurd aft a bar of iron, and alwaya was« 
But I am 9iirp«is0d that Mr, Bobarts obould take a 
past in it" 

In the meantime, at the palace, Mrs. Prondie ha^ 
been reduced to learn what waa going on fi*OKi Mr. 
Thomble. The biahop had never spoken a word to 
her respecting Mr. Crawley since that terrible day on 
which Dr. Tempest had witnessed his imbecility, — 
having absolutely declined to answer when his wife 
had mentioned <iie subject. ^*You won't speak to me 
about it, my dear?** she had said to him^ when he had 
thus decUned, remonstrating more in sorrow than in 
anger. "No; I won*t," the bishop had replied; "there 
has been a great deal too much talking about it It 
has broken my heart already, I know." These wer^ 
very bad days in die patlaoe. Mrs. Provdie afercted 
to be satisfied mik what was being done. Sine talked 
to Mr. Thumble about Mr. Crawley and the cihe^e, 
as though everythmg were anranged quite to her satis^ 
faction, — as though evevything, indeed, had been 
anranged by kerael£ But everybody about liie house 
eoidd Bto tbat ibe manner of the wcnnan was altogether 
altered. She iraa milder than usual with the servants 
and was afanost too geoAe in. her usage of her husband. 
It seyoned as ibo1^jb 8<»nething had happened to 
fngbten her and break her spirit, and it was whispered 
about through the palace tlwt she was afraid thiU; the 
bidiop was dying. As for him, he hardly left his own 
sitting-room in tibuese daya^ except when he joined the 
family at, teeakHast and at dinner. And. in his study 
he did Htlte or nettubg. He would smile when hk 
rkapilaMi want to hm^ and g^ve some trifliiig verbal 
direetioBli; but fcr days he scarcely ever took a pen in 

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his faandfl, and Uiongh he took up mmy books he real 
hardly a page. How ofttti he told his wife in those 
days that he was broken-hearted, no one bat his wifi^ 
ever knew. 

'^What has happened that yon shonld speak like 
that?'* she said to him once. ^^What has broken your 

"Ton,** he replied. "Yon; yon have done it'* 

"Oh, Tom," she said, going back into the memory 
of very far distant days in her nomenclature, "how 
can yon speak to me so cruelly as that! That it should 
come to that between you and me, after alU** 

"Why did yon not go away and leave me that day 
when I told you?" 

"Did yon ever know a woman who liked to be 
turned out of a room in her own house?" said Mrs. 
Prondie. When Mrs. Prondie had condescended so fax 
as this, it must be admitted, that in ibof^ days diere 
was great trouble in the palace. 

Mr. Thnmble, on tl^ day before he went to ^ver- 
bridge, asked for an audience wKii the Ushop in order 
that he might recdve instructions. He had been steietly 
desired to do this by Mrs. Prondie, and had not dared 
to disobey her injunctions, — thinking, however, him- 
self, that his doing so was inexpedient "I have got 
nothing to say to you about it; not a word," said ^e 
bishop crossly. "I thought that perhaps yon might 
like to see me befbre I started,'* pleaded Mr. Thnmble 
very humbly. "I don*t want to see you i^ all," said 
the bishop; "yon are going there to exercise yonr own 
judgment, — if yon have got any; and yea ought not 
to come to me." After that Mr. Thvmble b^^ to 

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THE oLBucAii ooioasaiON. 367 

think that Mrs. Proadie was light, and that the bishop 
was near his dissolution. 

Mr. Thnmble and Mr. Qujhrerfal went over ta 
Silverbridge together in a gig, hired firom the Dragon 
of Wantly — as to the cost of which there arose among 
them a not unnatural apprehension which amounted at 
last almost to dismay. ^^I don^t mind it so much for 
once/' said Mr. Quiverful, ^*but if many such meetings 
are necessary, I for one canH afford it, and I won't 
do it A man with my family can't allow himself to 
be money out of pocket in that way." "It is hard," 
said Mr. Thumble. "She ought to pay it herself, put 
of her own pocket," said Mr. Quivcurful. He had had 
concerns wiUi the palace when Mrs. Proudie was in the 
lull swing of har dominion, and had not as yet begun 
to suspect that there might possibly be a change. 

Mr. Oriel and Mr. Bobarts were already sitting 
with Dr. Tempest when the other two clergymen were 
shown into the room. When the first greetings were 
oyer luncheon was announced > and while they were 
eating not a word was said about Mr. Crawley. The 
ladies of the family were not present, and the five 
clergymen sat round the table alone. It would have 
been difficult to have got together five gentlemen less 
likely to act with one mind and one spirit; — and per- 
haps it was all the better for Mr. Crawley that it 
should be so. Dr. Tempest himself was a man pecu- 
liarly capable of ezeroiong the ftinctions of a judge in 
anch a matter, had he sat alone as a judge*, but he 
was one who would be almost sure to differ from 
others wbo sat as equal assessors wiht him. Mr. Oriel 
was a gentleman at all points; but he was very shy, 
▼ery reticent, and altogether uninstructed in the 

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368' THB hAffl OHftOmCIXiS OW 3AHS8T. 

oi^iiary dailj* intdrcourse of maon with man. Any one 
knowing him might have predicted of him that he 
would be snr^ on mcti «i occasion as this to be found 
floundering in a sea of doubts. Mr. Quiverful was the 
father of a large fkmily, whose whole life had beea 
devoted to fighting a cruel world &a behalf of his wife 
and children. That fight he had fought bravely; but 
it had lefb him no en^gy for any other business. Mr^ 
Thumble was a poor creature, — so poor a creature 
that, in spite of a small restless ambition to be doing 
something, he was almost cowed by the hard lines of 
Dr. Tempest's brow. The Eev. Mark Eobarts was a 
man of tiie world, and a clever fellow, and did not 
stand in awe of anybody, — unless it might be, in a 
very moderate degree, of his patrons the Ludons, 
whom he was bound to respect; but his devemess was 
not the clevafness needed by a judge. He was essen- 
tially a partisan, and would be sure to veto against the 
bishop in such a matter as this now before him. Thtfe 
was a palace faction in the diocese, and an anti-palaee 
^Action. Mr. Thtrmble imd Mr. Quivevfiil belonged to 
one, and Mt, Oriel and Mr. Eobarift to the other. Hr. 
Thumble wa« too weak to stick to hfis faction a^unst 
the strength of such a man as Dr. Tempest Mr. 
Quiv^rfhl would be too indiflBPent to do so, -*- unless 
his interest were concerned. Mr. Oriel would be toe 
conscientious to regard his oym side on aoch an occa- 
sion as this. But Mark Boborts would be sure t» 
support his friends and oppose his enemies, kt the case 
be what it migl^ ^^Now, gentlemen, if yo« please, 
we will go into the other room," sud Dr. Tempesi 
<They went into the other room, and these tlMj iow/ai 
^five chairs aarranged for them round the table. Not a 

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^ord had as yet been said about Mr. Crawley, and no 
one of' the four strangers knew whether Mr. Crawley 
was to appear before them on that day or not* 

^'Gentlemen/* said Dr. Tempest, seating himself at 
once in an arm-chair placed at the middle of the table, 
"I think it will be well to explain to you at first what, 
as I regard the matter, is the extent of the work which 
we are called upon to perform. It is of its nature 
very disagreeable. It cannot but be so, let it be ever 
so limited. Here is a brother clergyman and a gentleman, 
living among us, and doing his duty, as we are told, in a 
most exemplary manner; and suddenly we hear that he is 
accused of a theft. The matter is brought before the 
magistrates, of whom I myself was one, and he was 
committed for trial. There is therefore prim& facie 
evidence of his guilt. But I do not think that we 
need go into the question of his guilt at all." When 
he said this, the other four all looked up at him in 
astonishment. '^I thought that we had been summoned 
here for that purpose," said Mr. Robarts. "Not at all, 
as I take it," said the doctor. "Were we to commence 
any such inquiry, the jury would have given their 
verdict before we could come to any conclusion; and 
it would be impossible for us to oppose that verdict, 
whether it declares this unfortunate gentleman to be 
innocent or to be guilty. If the jury shall say that he 
is innocent, there is an end of the matter altogether. 
He would go back to his parish amidst the sympathy 
and congratulations of his friends. That is what we 
should all wish." 

"Of course it is," said Mr. Robarts. They all 
declared that was their desire, as a matter of course; 
and Mr. Thumble said it louder than any one else. 

The Laat Chronicle of Brtrset IL 24 ^ . 

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"But if he be fonnd guilty, ibeii will come iltat 
iifficnlfy to the bishop, in which we are bound to ^ve 
him any Msistance within onr power." 

"Of course we are," said Mr. Thumble, whOjiaYing 
heard his own voice once, and having liked 4he aonnd, 
thought that he might creep into a little imp«rtanee 
by using it on any occasion that opened itself for 

"If you will allow me, sir, I will renture to stttbe 
my views as shortly as I can," said Dr. Teaqpest. 
"That may perhaps be the most expeditio«fl •coarse for 
us all in the end." 

"Oh, certainly," said Mr. Thumble. "I didn't 
mean to interrupt." 

"In the case of his being found guilty," coariimied 
the doctor, "there will arise the question whether the 
punifidiment awarded to him by the judge should suffice 
for ecclesiastical purposes. Suppose, for instance, that 
he should be imprisoned for two months, should he be 
allowed to return to his living at the expiration of 
that term?" 

"I think he ought," said Mr. Kobarts; — "con- 
sidering all things." 

"I don't see why he shouldn't," said Mr. QuiverftiL 

Mr. Oriel sat listening patiently, and Mr. Thumble 
looked up to the doctor, expecting to hear some opinion 
expressed by him with which he might coincide. 

"There certainly are reasons why he should not," 
said Dr. Tempest; "though I by no means say that 
those reasons are conclusive in the present oaee. In 
the first place, a man who has stolen money can hardly 
be a fitting person to teach others not to s^al." 

"You must look to the circumstances," said Bobarts. 

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"Yes, that is true; but just bear wiih me a mo- 
ment. It cannot, at any rate, be tbougbt tbat a clergy- 
man should come out of prison and go to his living 
without any notice from his bishop, simply because he 
has already been punished under the common law. If 
this were so, a clergyman might be fined ten days 
nmning for being drunk in the street, — five shillings 
each time, — and at the end of that time might set 
his bishop at defiance. When a clergyman has shown 
himself to be utterly unfit for clerical duties, he must 
not be held to be protected from ecclesiastical censure 
or from deprivation by the action of the common law." 

"But Mr. Crawley has not shown himself to be 
unfit," said Eobarts. 

"That is begging the question, Kobarts," said the 

"Just so," said Mr. Thumble. Then Mr. Eobarts 
gave a look at Mr. Thumble, and Mr. Thumble retired 
into his shoes. 

"That is the question as to which we are caUed 
upon to advise the bishop," continued Dr. Tempest 
"And I must say that I think the bishop is right. If 
he were to allow the matter to pass by without notice, 
— that is to say, in the event of Mr. Crawley being 
pronounced to be guilty by a jury, — he would, I 
think, neglect his duty. Now, I have been informed 
that the bishop has recommended Mr. Crawley to desist 
from his duties till the trial be over, and that Mr. 
Crawley chas declined to take the bishop's advice. 

"That is true," said Mr. Thumble. "He altogether 
disregarded the bishop." 

"I cannot say that I think he was wrong," said 
Dr. Tempest 


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"I think he was quite right " said Mr. Robarts. 

**A bishop in almost all cases is entitled to the 
obedience of his clergy," said Mr. Oriel. 

"I must say that I agree with you, sir," said Mr. 

"The income is not large, and I suppose that it 
would have gone with the duties," said Mr. Quiverful. 
"It is very hard for a man with a family to live when 
his income has been stopped." 

"Be that as it may," continued the doctor, "the 
bishop feels that it may be his duty to oppose the 
return of Mr. Crawley to his pulpit, and that he can 
oppose it in no other way than by proceeding against 
Mr. Crawley under the Clerical Offences Act I pro- 
pose, therefore, that we should invite Mr. Crawley to 
attend here — " 

"Mr. Crawley is not coming here to-day, then?" 
said Mr. Robarts. 

"I thought it useless to ask for his attendance until 
we had settled on our course of action," said Dr. Tempest 
"If we are all agreed, I will beg him to come here on 
this day week, when we will meet again. And we will 
then ask him whether he will submit himself to the 
bishop^s decision, in the event of the jury finding him 
guilty. If he should decline to do so, we can only 
then form our opinion as to what will be the bishop's 
duty by reference to the facts as they are elicited at 
the trial. If Mr. Crawley should choose to make to ua 
any statement as to his own case, of course we shall 
be willing to receive it That is my idea of what had 
better be done; and now, if any gentleman has any 
other proposition to make, of course we shall be pleased 
to hear him." Dr. Tempest, as he said this, looked 

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i*6aiid upon bis companions, aa though his pleasure, 
under the circumstances suggested by himself, would 
be very doubtfuL 

"I don't suppose we can do anything better,'* said 
Mr. Eobarts. "I think it a pity, however, that any 
steps should have been taken by the bishop before the 

"The bishop has been placed in a very delicate 
position," said Mr. Thumble, pleading for his patron. 

"I don't know the meaning of the word 'delicate,' " 
said Bobarts. "I think his duty was very clear, to 
avoid interference whilst the matter is, so to say, be- 
fore the judge." 

''Nobody has anything else to propose?" said Dr. 
Tempest "Then I wiU write to Mr. Crawley, and you, 
gentlemen, will perhaps do me the honour of meeting 
me here at one o'clock on this day week." Then the 
meeting was over, and the four clergymen having 
shaken hands with Dr. Tempest in the hall, all pro- 
mised that they would return on that day week. So 
far, Dr. Tempest had carried his point exactly as he 
might have done had the four gentlemen been repre- 
sented by. the chairs on which they had sat 

"I shan^t come again, all the same, unless I know 
where I'm to get my expenses," said Mr. Quiverful, as 
he got into the gig. 

"I shall come," said Mr. Thumble, "because I think 
it a duty. Of course it is a hardship." Mr. Thumble 
liked the idea of being joined with such men as Dr. 
Tempest, and Mr. Oriel, and Mr. Kobarts, and would 
any day have paid the expense of a gig from Barchester 
to Silverbridge out of his own pocket, for the sake of 
sitting with such benchfellows on any clerical inquiry. 

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"One's first duty is to one*s oim wife and family,*' 
said Mr. Quiverful. 

"Well, yes; in a way, of course, tliat is (piiB true^ 
Mr. Quiverftil; and wli6n we know how very made- 
qnate are the incomes of the working clergy, we can- 
not but ffeel ourselves to be, if I may so say, pnt upon, 
when we have to defray the expenses incidental to 
special duties out of our own pockets. I think, you 
know, — I don't mind saying this to you, — l^at the 
palace should have provided us with a chaise and 
pair." This was ungrateful on the part of Mr. Thumble, 
who had been , permitted to ride miles upon mile» to 
various outlying clerical duties upon the bishop's worn- 
out cob. "You see," continued Mr. Thumble, "you 
and I go specially to represent ^e palace, and the 
palace ought to remember that. I Uiink there ought 
to have been a chaise and pair; I do indeed." 

"I don't care much what the conveyance is," said 
Mr. Quiverful; "but I certainly shall pay nothing more 
out of my own pocket; — certainly I shall not." 

"The result will be that the palace will be thrown 
over if they don't take caare," said Mr; Thumble. 
"Tempest, however, seems to be pretty steady. Tempest, 
I thmk, is steady. You see he m getting tired of 
parish work, and would like to go into the close. 
That's what he is looking out for. Did you. ever see 
such a fellow as that Robarts, — just look at him; — 
quite indecent, wasn't he? He thinks he can have his 
own way in everything, just because his^ sister married 
a lord. I do hate to see all that meanneai." 

Mark Robart* and Caleb Oriel left Silverbridge in 
aoother gig by the same road, and soon passed their 
brethren, as Mr. Bobaarts was in tdie habit of driving a 

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large, quick -stepping horse. The last remarks were 
being made as the dnst from the vicar; of FramLey's 
wheels saluted the faces of the two slower clergymen. 
Mr. Oriel had promised to dine and sleep at Framley, 
and therefore returned in Mr. Robart»' gig. 

*^ Quite unnecessary, all this fuss; don^t you think 
so?" said Mr. Robarts. 

*^I am not quite sure," said Mr. OrieL '^I can 
understand that the bishop may have found a difficulty." 

"The bishop, indeed I The bishop doesn't care two 
straws about it. It's Mrs. Proudie! She has put her 
finger on the poor man's neck because he has not put 
his neck beneath her feet; and now she thinks she can 
crush him, — as she would crush you or me, if it were 
in her power. That's about the long and the short of 
the bishop's solicitude." 

"You are rery hard on him," said Mr. OrieL 

"I know him; — and am not at all hard on him. 
She is hard upon him if you Hke. Tempest is £ur. 
He is very fkir, and as long as no one meddles with 
him he won't do amiss. I can't hold my tongue aHways, 
but I often know that it is better that I should." 

Dr. Tempest said not a word to any one on the 
subject, not even in his own defence. And yet he was 
sorely tempted. On the very day of the meeting he 
dined at Mr. Walker's in Silverbridge, and there sub- 
mitted to be talked at by all the ladies and most of 
the gentlemen present, without saying a word in his 
own defence. And yet a word or two would have 
been so easy and so conclusive. 

"Oh, Dr. Tempest," said Mary Walker, "I am so 
sorry that you have joined the bishop." 

"Are you, my dear?" said he. "It is generally 

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thought well that a parish clergyman should agree 
with his bishop." 

"But you know, Dr. Tempest, that you don't agree 
with your bishop generally." 

"Then it is the more fortunate that I shall be able 
to agree with him on this occasion.^' 

Major Grantly was present at the dinner, and ven- 
tured to ask the doctor in the course of the evening 
what he thought would be done. "I should not ven- 
ture to ask such a question, Dr. Tempest," he said, 
"unless I had the strongest possible reason to justify 
my anxiety." 

"I don't know that I can tell you anything, Major 
Grantly," said the doctor. "We did not even see Mr. 
Crawley to-day. But the real truth is that he must 
stand or fall as the jury shall find him guilty or not 
guilty. It would be the same in any profession. Could 
a captain in the army hold up his head in his regiment 
after he had been tried and found guilty of stealing 
twenty pounds?" 

"I don't think he could," said the major. 

"Neither can a clergyman," said the doctor. "The 
bishop can neither make him nor mar him. It is the 
jury that must do it" 


Framley Parsonage. 

At this time Grace Crawley was at Framley Par- 
sonage. Old Lady Lufton's strategy had been quite 
intelligible, but some people said that in point of eti- 
quette and judgment and moral conduct, it was in- 
defensible. Her vicar, Mr. Robarts, had been selected 

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io be one of the clergymen who was to sit in ecclesias- 
tical judgment upon Mr. Crawley, and while he was so 
sitting Mr, Crawley^s daughter was staying in Mr. Ko- 
harts* house as a visitor with his wife! It might he 
that there was no harm in this. Lady Lufton, when 
the apparent impropriety was pointed out to her by no 
less a person than Archdeacon Grantly, ridiculed the 
Idea. "My dear archdeacon," Lady Lufton had said, 
"we all know the bishop to be such a fool and the 
bishop's wife to be such a knave, that we cannot allow 
ourselves to be governed in this matter by ordinary 
rules. Do you not think that it is expedient to show 
how utterly we disregard his judgment and her malice?" 
The archdeacon had hesitated much before he spoke to 
Lady Lufton, whether he should address himself to 
her or to Mr. Robarts, — or indeed to Mrs. Bobarts. 
But he had become aware that the proposition as to 
the visit had originated with Lady Lufton, and he had 
therefore decided on speaking to her. He had not con- 
descended to say a word as to his son, nor would he 
so condescend. Nor could he go from Lady Lufton to 
Mr. Bobarts, having once failed with her ladyship. 
Indeed, in giving him his due, we must acknowledge 
that his disapprobation of Lady Lufton's strategy arose 
rather from his true conviction as to its impropriety, 
than from any fear lest this attention paid to Miss 
Crawley should tend to bring about her marriage with 
his son. By this time he hated the very name of Crawley. 
He hated it the more because in hating it he had to 
put himself for the time on the same side with Mrs. 
Proudie. But for all that he would not condescend to 
any unworthy mode of fighting. He thought it wrong 
that the young lady should be invited to Framley Par- 

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soni^ at this moment, and he said so to the person 
who had, as he thonght, in truth, given the invitatioB; 
bat he would not allow his own personal motivas> to 
induce him to carry on the argument with Lady Lofton* 
"The bishop is a fool," he said, "and the bishopV wife 
is a kuATe. Nevertheless I would not h»re had the 
young lady over to Framley at this moment. If, how- 
ever, you tihiiik it right and Robarts thinks it right| 
there is an end of it" 

"Upon my word we do," said Lady Lufton. 

I am induced to think that Mr. Robarts was nei 
quite confident of the expediency of what he was doing 
by the way in which he mentioned to Mr. Oriel the fact 
of Miss Crawley's, presence at the parsonage as he drove 
that gentleman home in hu gig. They had been talking 
about Mr. Crawley, when he suddenly turned himself 
round, so that he could look at his companion, and 
said, "Miss Crawley is staying with us at the parsonage 
at the' present moment" 

"WhatI Mr. Crawley's daughter?" said Mr. Oriel, 
showing plainly by his voice that the tidings had much 
surprised him. 

"Yes; Mr. Crawley's daughter." 

"Oh, indeed. I did not know that you were on 
thosei terms with the family." 

"We have known them for the last seven or eight 
years," said Mark; "and though I should be giving 
yow a' false inotion if I were to say that I myself have 
known them intimately, — for Crawley is a man whom 
it is quite impossible to know intimately, — yet the 
womankind at Framley have known them. My sister 
stayed with them over at Hogglestock for some time.** 

"What; Lady Lufton?" 

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"Yes; my sister Lucy. It was just before her mar- 
riage. There was a lot of trouble, and the Crawley s 
were all ill, and she went to nurse them. And then 
the old lady took them up, and altogether there came 
to be a soft of feeling that they were to be regarded 
as friends. They are always in trouble, and now in 
this special trouble the women between them have 
thought it best to have the girl over at Framley. Of 
course I had a kind of feeling about this commission; 
but as I knew t^t it would make no difiPerence with 
me I did not think it necessary to put my veto upon 
the visit.'' Mr. Oriel said nothing further, but Mark 
Bobarts was aware that Mr. Oriel did not quite approve 
of the visit 

That morning old Lady Lufbon herself had come 
across to th© parsonage with the express view ofbid- 
ding all the parsonage party to come across to the hall 
to dine. "You can tell Mr. Oriel, Fanny, wkh Lucy's 
compliments, how delighted she will be to see him." 
Old Lady Lufton always spoke of her daughter-in- 
law as the mistress of the house. "If you ^nk he 
is particular, you know, we will send a note across." 
Mrs. Kobarts said that she supposed Mr. Oriel would 
not be particular, but, k>oking at Grace, made some 
faint excuse. "You must come, my dear," said 
Lady Lufton. "Lucy wishes it particularly." Mrs. 
Bobarts did not know how to say that she would not 
come; and so the matter stood, — when Mrs. Bobarts 
was called upon to leave the room for a moment, and 
Lady Lufton and Grace were left alone. 

"Dear Lady Lufton," said Grace, getting up sud- 
denly from her chair; "will you do me a favour, — & 
great favour?" She spoke with an energy which quite 

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surprised the old lady, and caused her almost to Start 
from her seat. 

"I don^t like making promises," said Lady Lufton^ 
"but anything I can do with propriety I wilL" 

"You can do this. Pray let me stay here to-day. 
You don*t understand how I feel about going out while 
papa is in this way. I know how kind and how good 
you all are; and when dear Mrs. Kobarts asked me 
here, and mamma said that I had better come, I could 
not refdse. But indeed, indeed, I had rather not go 
out to a dinner-party." 

"It is not a party, my dear girl," said Lady Luf- 
ton, with the kindest voice which she knew how to 
assume. "And you must remember that my daughter- 
in-law regards you as so very old a friend I You re- 
member , of course, when she was staying over at 

"Indeed I do. I remember it welL" 

"And therefore you should not regard it as going 
out. There will be nobody there but ourselves and 
the people from this house." 

"But it will be going out. Lady Lufbon; and I do 
hope you will let me stay here. You cannot think how 
I feel it Of course I cannot go without something 

like dressing, and — and — and In poor papa^s 

state I feel that I ought not to do anything that looks 
Hke gaiety. I ought never to forget it; — not for a 

There was a tear in Lady Lufton^s eye as she said, 
— "My dear, you shan't come. You andPanny shall 
stop and dine here by yourselves. The gentlemen shall 

"Do let Mrs. Bobarts go, please," said Grace. 

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"I won't do anything of the kind," said Lady Luf- 
ton. Then, when Mrs. Robarts returned to the room, 
her ladyship explained it all in two words. "Whilst 
yon have been away, my dear, Grace has begged off, 
and therefore we have decided that Mr. Oriel and Mr. 
Robarts shall come without yon." 

"I am so sorry, Mrs. Robarts," said Grace. 

"Pooh, pooh," said Lady Lnfton. "Fanny and I 
have known each other quite long enough not to stand 
on any compliments, — haven't we, my dear? I must 
get home now, as all the morning has gone by. Fanny 
my dear, I want to speak to you." Then she ex- 
pressed her opinion of Grace Crawley as she walked 
across the parsonage garden with Mrs. Robarts. "She 
is a very nice girl, and a very good girl, I am sure; 
and she shows excellent feeling. Whatever happens 
we must take care of her. And, Fanny, have you ob- 
served how handsome she is?" 

"We think her very pretty." 

"She is more than pretty when she has a little fire 
in her eyes. She is downright handsome, — or will 
be when she fills out a little. I tell you what, my dear; 
she'll make havoc with somebody yet; you see if she 
doesn't. Bye -bye I Tell the two gentlemen to be 
up by seven punctually." And then Lady Lufton went 

Grace so contrived that Mr. Oriel came and went 
without seeing her. There was a separate nursery 
breakfast at the parsonage, and by special permission 
Grace was allowed to have her tea and bread-and- 
butter on the next morning with the children. "I 
thought you told me Miss Crawley was here," said Mr. 

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Oriel, as the two clergymen stood widting for the gig 
that was to take the visitor away to Barchester. 

**So she is/' said Hofoarts; ^^but she likes to hide 
herself, because of her father's trouble. You can't 
blame h^." 

"No, indeed," said Mr. Oriel 

"Poor girl. If you knew her you would not only 
pity her, but like her." 

"Is she — what you call ?" 

"You mean, is she a lady?" 

"Of course she is by birth, and all that," said Mr. 
Oriel, apologizing for his inquiry. 

"I don't thii^ there is another girl in the county 
so well educated," said Mr. Eobarts. 

"Indeed! I had no idea of that" 

"And we think her a great beauty. As for man- 
ners, I never saw a girl with a prettier way of her 

"Dear me," said Mr. Oriel. "I wish she had come 
down to breakfast." 

It will have been perceived that old Lady Lufton 
had heard nothing of Major Grantly's offence; that she 
had no knowledge that Grrace had abeady made havoc, 
as she had called it, — had, in truth, made very sad 
havoc, at Plumstead. She did not, therefore, think 
much about it when her son told h^ upon her return 
home from the parsonage on that afternoon that Major 
Grantly had come ov^ from Cosby Lodge, and that 
he was going to dine and sleep at Framley Court 
Some slight idea of thankfulness came across her .ound 
that she had not betrayed Girace Crawley into a meeting 
with a stranger. "I asked him to come some day be- 
fore we went up to town," said his lordship; "and I 



am glad he has come to-day, as two clergymen to 
one's self are, at any rate, one too many." So Major 
Grrantly dined and slept at the Conrt 

But Mrs. Bobarts was in a great flurry when she 
was told of this by her husband on his return from the 
dinner. Mrs. Crawley had found an opportunity of 
telling the story of Major Grantly's love to Mrs. Eo- 
barts before she had sent her daughter to Framley, 
knowing that the families wece intimate, and thinking 
it right that there should be some precaution. 

"I wonder whether he will come up here," Mrs. 
Bobarts had said. 

^Trobably not," said the vicar. '^He said he was 
going home early." 

"I hope he will not come — for Grace's sake," 
said Mrs. Bobarte. She hesitated whether she should 
tell her husband. She always did tell him everything. 
But on this occasion she thought she had no right to 
do so, and she kept ihe secret. "DonH do anything 
to bring him up, dear." 

"You needn't be afraid. He won't come," said the 
vicar. On the following morning, as soon as Mr. Oriel 
was gone, Mr. Bobarts went out, — about his parish 
he would probably have called it; but in half an hour 
he might have been seen strolling about the Court 
stable-yard with Lord Lu^n. "Where is Grantly?" 
asked the vicar. "I don't know where he is," said his 
lordship. "He has sloped off somewhere." The major 
had sloped off to the parsonage, well knowin^^ in what 
nest his dove was lying hid; and he and the vicar had 
passed each ather. T^e major had gone out at the 
front gate, and the vicar had gone in at the stable 

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The two clergymen had hardly taken their depar- 
ture when Major Grantly knocked at the parsonage 
door. He had come so early that Mrs. Boharts liad 
taken no precautions, — even had there been any pre- 
cautions which she would have thought it right to 
take. Grace was in the act of coming down the stairs, 
not having heard the .knock at the door, and thus she 
found her lover in the hall. He had asked, of course, 
for Mrs. Robarts, and thus they two entered the drawing- 
room together. They had not had time to speak ivhen 
the servant opened the drawing-room door to announce 
the visitor. There had been no word spoken between 
Mrs. Hobarts and Grace about Major Grantly, but the 
mother had told the daughter of what she had said to 
Mrs. Robarts. 

"Grace," said the major, "I am so glad to find 
you!" Then he turned to Mrs. Robarts with his open 
hand. **You won't take it uncivil of me if I say Uiat 
my visit is not entirely to yourself? I think I may 
take upon myself to say that I and Miss Crawley are 
old friends. May I not?" 

Grace could not answer a word. "Mrs. Crawley 
told me that you had known her at Silverbridge," said 
Mrs. Roberts, driven to say something, but feeling that 
she was blundering. 

"I came over to Framley yesterday because I 
heard that she was here. Am I wrong to come up 
here to see her?" 

"I think she must answer that for herself, Major 

"Am I wrong, Ghrace?" Grace thought that he 
was the finest gentleman and the noblest lover that 
had ever shown his devotion to a woman, and was 

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Stirred by a mighty resolve that if it ever should be in 
her power to reward him after any fashion, she would 
pour out the reward with a very full hand indeed. 
But what was she to say on the present moment? 
^*Am I wrong, Orace?" he said, repeating his question 
widi so much emphasis, that she was positively driven 
to answer it 

^^I do not think you are wrong at all. How can 
I say you are wrong when you are so good? K I 
could be your servant I would serve you. But I can 
be nothing to you, because of papa's disgrace. Dear 
Mrs. Robarts, I cannot stay. You must answer him 
for me." And having thus made her speech she 
escaped from the room. 

It may suffice to say further now that the major 
did not see Grace again during that visit at Framley. 


The Archdeacou goes to Framley. 

By some of those unseen telegraphic wires which 
carry news about the country and make no charge for 
the conveyance. Archdeacon Orantly heard that his 
son the major was at Framley. Now in that itself 
there would have been nothing singular. There had 
been for years much intimacy between the Lufkon 
family and the Grantly family, — so much that an 
alliance between the two houses had once been planned, 
the elders having considered it expedient that the 
young lord should marry that Griselda who had since 
mounted higher in the world even than the elders had 
then projected for her. There had come no such al- 
liance; but the intimacy had not ceased, and there waf 

The Last Chronicle of Baraet. II. 25 

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nothing in itself surprising in the fact &at Mi^or^ 
Grantly should be staying at Framley Court But the 
archdeacon, when he heard the news, bethought him at 
once of Grace Crawley. Could it be possible that his 
old friend Lady Lufton, — Lady Lufton whom he had 
known and trusted all his life, whom he had ever re- 
garded as a pillar of the church in Barsetshire, — 
»homld now be untrue to him in a matter so closely 
affecting his interests? Men when they are worried 
by fears and teased by adverse circumstances become 
suspicious of those on whom suspicion should never 
rest It was hardly possible, the archdeacon thought, 
that Lady Lufton should treat him so unworthily, — 
but the circumstances were strong against his friend. 
Lady Lufton had induced Miss Crawley to go to 
Framley, much against his advice, at a time when such 
a visit seemed to him to be very improper; and it now 
appeared that his son was to be there at the same 
time, — a fact of which Lady Lufton had made no 
mention to him whatever. Why had not Lady Lufton 
told him that Henry Grantly was coming to Framley 
Court? The reader, whose interest in the matter will 
be less keen than was the archdeacon's, will know very 
well why Lady Lufton had said nothing about the 
major's visit The reader will remember that Lady 
Lufton, when she saw the archdeacon, was as ignorant 
as to the intended visit as was the archdeacon himself 
But the archdeacon was uneasy, troubled, and sus- 
picious; — and he suspected his old friend un- 

He spoke to his wife about it within a very few 
hours of the arrival of the tidings by those invisible 
wires. He had already told her ^ that Miss Crawley 

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was to go to Framky parsonage, and that be thought 
that Mrs. Robarts was wrong to receive her at such a 
time. "It is only intended for good -nature," Mrs. 
Grantly had said. "It is misplaced good-nature at the 
present moment," the archdeacon had replied. Mrs. 
Grantly had not thought it worth her while to under- 
take at the moment any strong defence of the Framley 
people. She knew weU how odious was the name of 
Crawley in her husband^s ears, and she felt that the 
less that was said at present about the Crawleys th« 
better for the peace of 'the rectory at Plumstead. She 
bad therefore allowed the expression of his disapproval 
to pass unchallenged. But now he came upon her with 
a more bitter grievance, and she was obliged to argue 
the matter witL him. 

"What do you think?" said he; "Henry is at 

"He can haardly be staying there," said Mrs. 
Grantly, "because I knpw that he is so very busy at 
home." The business at home of which the major^s 
mother was speaking was his projected moving from 
Cosby Lodge, a subject which was also very odious to 
the archdeacon. He did not wish his son to move 
from Cosby Lodge. He could not endure the idea 
that his son should be known throughout the county 
to be giving up a residence because he could not af- 
ford to keep it. The archdeacon could have afforded 
to keep up two Cosby Lodges for his son, and would 
have been well pleased to do so, if only his son would 
not misbehave against him so shamefully! He could 
not bear that his son should be punished, openly, be- 
fore the eyes of all Barsetshire. Indeed he did not 
wish that his son should be punished at all. He simply 


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desired that his son shoold recognize his father's power 
to inflict punishment. It wonld be h^ibane to Arch- 
deacon Gtnmtlj to have a poor son, — a son living at 
Pan, — among Frenchmen 1 — because he could not 
afford to live in England. Why had the archdeacon 
been careful of his money, adding house to house uid 
fleld to £^? He himself was contented, — so he told 
himself, — to die as he had lived in a eountry par- 
sonage, working with the cdlar roand his neck Aip to 
the day of hk death, if Grod would allow him so to do. 
fie was ambitious of no grandeur for himself. So he 
would tell himself, — being partly oblivious of cai»in 
episodes in his own life. All his wealth had been got 
together for his diildnen. He desired t^t his sons 
should be fitting brothers for their august mster. And 
now the son who was nearest to him, whcnn he was 
bent upon making a squire in his own county, wanted 
to marry the daughter of a man who had stolen twenty 
pounds, and when objection was made to so discredit- 
able a connexion, replied by packing «p all his things 
and saying that he would go and live — at Paul The 
archdeacon therefore did not like to hear of his son 
being very bu^ at home. 

*'I don't know whether he's busy or not," sadd the 
JKTchdeaeon, '^but I t^l you he is staymg at Framley.'^ 

"Prom whom have you heard it?" 

"What matter does that make if it is so? I heard 
it from Flurry.'^ 

"Flurry may have been mistaken," said Mrs. 

"It is not at all likely. Those people always know 
about such things. He heard it from the Framley 

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keeper. I donH doubt bat it's true, and I think htat 
it's a great shame." 

"A great shame that Henry should be at Framleyl 
fie has been there two or three times every year since 
he has lived in the county." 

^ It is a great shame that he should be had over 
there just at the time when that girl is there also. It 
is impossible to believe that such a thing is an acci- 

"But, archdeaccm, you do not mean to say that you 
think that Lady Lufton has arranged it?" 

"I don't know who has arranged it Somebody 
lias arranged it If it is Bobarts, that is almost worse. 
One could forgive a woman in such a matter better 
than one could a man." 

"Psha!" Mrs. Grantly's temper was never bitter^ 
but at this moment it was not sweetened by her hus- 
band's very uncivil reference to her sex. "Hie whole 
idea is nonsense, and you should get it out of your 

"Am I to get it out of my head that Henry wants 
to make this girl his wife, and that the two are at this 
moment at Framley together?" In this the archdeacon 
was wrong as to his facts. Major Grantly had left 
Framley on the previous day, having stayed there only 
one night "It is coming to that that one can trust no 
one — no one — literally no one." Mrs. Grantly per- 
fectly understood that the archdeacon, in the agony of 
the moment, intended to exclude even herself from his 
confidence by that "no one*," but to this she was in- 
different, understanding accurately when his words should 
be accepted as expressing his thoughts, and when they 
should be supposed to express only his anger. 



"The probability is that no one at Lnfton knew 
anything about Henry's partiality for Miss Crawley," 
said Mrs. Grantly. 

"I tell you I think they are both at Framley to- 

"And I tell you that if they are, which I doubt, 
they are thare simply by an accident. Besides, what 
does it matter? If they choose to marry each other, 
you and I cannot prevent them. They don't want any 
assistance from Lady Lufton, or anybody else. They 
have simply got to make up their own minds, and then 
no one can hinder them." 

"And, therefore, you would like to see them brought 

"I say nothing about that, archdeacon; but I do 
say that we must take these things as they come. What 
can we do? Henry may go and stay with Lady 
Lufton if he pleases. You and I cannot prevent 

After this the archdeacon walked away, and would 
not argue the matter any further with his wife at that 
moment. He knew very well that he could not get 
the better of her, and was apt at such moments to 
think that she took an unfair advantage of him by 
keeping her temper. But he could not get out of his 
head the idea that perhaps on this very day things 
were being arranged between his son and Grace Craw- 
ley at Framley; and he resolved that he himself would 
go over and see what might be done. He would, at 
i^ny rate, tell all his trouble to Lady Lufton, and beg 
his old friend to assist him. He could not think that 
such a one as he had always known Lady Lufton 
to be would approve of a marriage between Henry 

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and Grace Crawley. At any rate, he would learn the 
tmtb. He had once been told that Grace Crawley 
had herself reused to marry his son, feeling that 
she would do wrong to inflict so great an injury 
upon any gentleman. He had not believed in so 
great a virtue. He could not believe in it now, — 
now, when he heard that Miss Crawley and his son 
wejre staying together in the same parish. Somebody 
must be doing him an injury. It could hardly be 
chance. But his presence at Framley might even 
yet have a good effect, and he would at least 
learn the truth. So he had himself driven to Bar- 
chester, and from Barchester he took post-horses to 

As he came near to the village, he grew to bo 
somewhat ashamed of himself, or, at least, nervous as 
to the mode in which he would proceed. The driver, 
turning round to him, had suggested that he supposed 
he was to drive to "My lady's." This injustice to 
Lord Lufton, to whom the house belonged, and with 
whom his mother lived as a guest, was very common 
in the county; for old Lady Lufton had lived at 
Framley Court through her son's long minority, and 
had kept thQ house there till his marriage; and even 
since his marriage she had been recognized as its pre- 
siding genius. It certainly was not the fault of old 
Lady Lufton, as she always spoke of everything as 
belonging either to her son or to her daughter-in-law. 
The archdeacon had been in doubt whether he would 
go to the Court or to the parsonage. Could he have 
done exactly as he wished, he would have left the 
chaise and walked to the parsonage, so as to reach it 
without the noise and fuss incidental to a postilion's 

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airivaL Bat that was impossible. He could not drop 
into Framley as though he had come from the clouds, 
and, therefore, he told the man to do as he had sug- 
gested. ''To mj lad/s?" said the postilion. The 
archdeacon assented, and the man, with loud cracks 
of his whip, and with a spasmodic gallop along the 
short avenue, took the archdeacon up to the door of 
Lord Lufiton^s house. He asked for Lord Lufton first, 
putting on his pleasantest smile, so that the servant 
should not suspect the purpose, of which he was some- 
what ashamed. Was Lord Lufton at home? Lord 
Lufton was not at home. Lord Lufton had gone up 
to London that morning, intending to return the day 
after to-morrow; but both my ladies were at home. So 
the archdeacon was shown into the room where both my 
ladies were sitting, — and with them 'he found Mrs. 
Bobarts. Any one who had become acquainted with 
the habits of the Framley ladies would have known 
that this might very probably be the case. The arch- 
deacon himself was as well aware as any one of the 
modes of life at Framley. The lord's wife was the 
parson's sister, and the parson's wife had from her 
infancy been the petted friend of the old lady. Of 
course they all lived very much together. Of course 
Mrs. Bobarts was as much at home in the drawings 
room of Framley Court as she was in her own draw- 
ing-room at the parsonage. Nevertheless, the arch- 
deacon thought himself to be hardly used when he 
found that Mrs. Bobarts was at the house. 

''My dear archdeacon, who ever expected to see 
you?" said old Lady Lufton. Then the two younger 
women greeted him. And they all smiled on him 
pleasantly, and seemed oveijoyed to see him. He 

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was, in tmth, a great favourite at Framley, and each 
of the three was glad to welcome him. They helieyed 
in the archdeacon at Framley, and felt for him that 
sort of love which ladies in the country do feel for 
their elderly male friends. There was not one of the 
three who would not have taken much trouble to get 
anything for the archdeacon which they had thought 
the archdeacon would like. Even old Lady Lufton 
remembered what was his favourite soup, and always 
took care that he should have it when he dined at the 
Court Young Lady Lufton would bring his tea to 
him as he sat in his chair. He was petted in the 
house, was allowed to poke the fire if he pleased, and 
called the servants by their names as though he were 
at home. He was compelled, therefore, to smile and 
to seem pleased; and it was not till after he had eaten 
his lunch, and had declared that he must return home 
to dinner, that the dowager gave him an opportunity 
of having the private conversation which he desired. 

"Can I have a few minutes' talk with you?" he 
said to her, whispering into her ear as they left the 
drawing-room together. So she led the way into her 
own sitting-room, telling him, as she asked him to be 
seated, that she had supposed that something special 
must have brought him over to Framley. "I should 
have asked you to come up here, even tf you had not 
spoken," she said. 

"Then perhaps you know what has brought me 
over?" said the archdeacon. 

"Not in the least," said Lady Lufton. "I have 
not an idea. But I did not flatter myself that you 
would come so far on a morning call, merely to see 

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U8 three ladies. I hope yon did not want to see 
Ladovic, because he will not be back till to-moirow?" 

"I wanted to see you, Lady Lnfton." 

"That is lucky, as here I am. You may be pretty 
sure to find me here any day in the year." 

After this there was a little pause. The archdeacon 
hardly knew how to begin his story. In the first place 
he was in doubt whether Lady Lufiton had ever heard 
of the preposterous match which his son had proposed 
to himself' to make. In his anger at Flumstead he had 
felt sure that she knew all about it, and that she was 
assisting his son. But this belief had dwindled as his 
anger had dwindled; and as the chaise had entered 
the parish of Framley he had told himself that it was 
quite impossible that she should know anything about 
it Her manner had certainly been altogether in her 
favour since he had been in her house. There had 
been nothing of the consciousness of guilt in her de- 
meanour. But, nevertheless, there was the coincidence! 
How had it come to pass that Grace Crawley and his 
son should be at Framley together? It might, indeed, 
be just possible that Flurry might have been wrong, 
and that his son had not been there at all. 

"I suppose Miss Crawley is at the parsonage?" he 
said at last 

"Oh, yes; she is still there, and will remain there 
I should think for the next ten days." 

"Oh; I did not know," said the archdeacon very 

It seemed to Lady Lufton, who was as innocent as 
an unborn babe in the matter of the projected mar^ 
riage, that her old friend the archdeacon was in a 

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mind to persecute the Crawleys. He had on a fonner 
occasion taken upon himself to advise that Grace 
Crawley should not be entertained at Framley, and 
now it seemed that he had come all the way from 
Plumstead to say something further in the same strain. 
Lady Lufton, if he had anything further to say of 
that kind, would listen to him as a matter of course. 
She would listen to him and reply to him without 
temper. But she did not approve of it She told her- 
self silently that she could not approve of persecution 
or of interference. She therefore drew herself up, and 
pursed her mouth, and put on something of that look 
of severity which she could assume very visibly, if it 
80 pleased her. 

^^Yes', she is still there, and I think that her visit 
will do her a great deal of good," said Lady Lufton. 

" When we talk of doing good to people," said the 
archdeacon, "we often make terrible mistakes. It so 
often happens that we don't know when we are doing 
good and when we are doing harm." 

"That is true, of course. Dr. Grantly, and must be 
so necessarily, as our wisdom here below is so very 
limited. But I should think, — as far as I can see, 
that is, — that the kindness which my friend Mrs. 
Eobarts is showing to this young lady must be bene- 
ficiaL You know, archdeacon, I explained to you be- 
fore that I could not quite agree with you in what 
you said as to leaving these people alone till after the 
trial. I thought that help was necessary to them at 

The archdeacon sighed deeply. He ought to have 
been somewhat renovated in spirit by the tone in which 
Lady Lufton spoke to him, as it conveyed to him 

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almost an absolute conviction that his first suspicion 
was incorrect But any comfort which might have come 
to him from this source was marred by the feeling that 
he must announce his own disgrace. At any rate he 
must do so, unless he were contented to go back to 
Plumstead without haying learned anything by his 
journey. He changed the tone of his voice, however, 
and asked a question, — as it might be altogether on 
a different subject. ^'I heard yesterday," he [said, 
"that Henry was over here." 

"He was here yesterday. He came the evening 
before, and dined and slept here, and went home 
yesterday morning." 

"Was Miss Crawley with you that evening?" 

"Miss Crawley? No; she would not come. She 
thinks it best not to go out while her father is in his 
present unfortunate position*, and she is right." 

"She is quite right in that," said the archdeacon; 
and then he paused again. He thought that it would 
be best for Um to make a clean breast of it, and to 
trust to Lady Lufton's sympathy. "Did Henry go up 
to the parsonage?" he asked. 

But still Lady Lufton did not suspect the trath. 
"I think he did," she replied, with an air of surprise. 
"I think I heard that he went up there to call on 
Mrs. Robarts after breakfast" 

"No, Lady Lufton, he did not go up there to call 
on Mrs. Robarts. He went up there because he is 
making a fool of himself about that Miss Crawley. 
That is the truth. Now you understand it all. I hope 
that Mrs. Robarts does not know it. I do hope for 
her own sake that Mrs. Robarts does not know it" 

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The archdeacon certainlj had no longer any donbt 
as to Lady Lnfton^s innocence when he looked at her 
£ace as she heard these tidings. She had predicted 
that Grace Crawley would ^^make havoc," and could 
not, therefore, be altogether surprised at the idea that 
some gentleman should have fallen in love with her^ 
but she had never supposed that the havoc might be 
made so early in her days, or on so great a quarry. 
•'You don't mean to^ tell me that Henry Oranily is in 
love with Grace Crawley?" she replied. 

'*I mean to say that he says he is." 

**Dear, dear, dear! Tm sure, archdeacon, that 
you will believe me when I say that I knew nothing 
about it" 

"I am quite sure of that," said the archdeacon 

'^Or I certainly should not have been glad to see 
him h^re. But the house, you know, is not mine. 
Dr. Grantly. I could have done nothing if I had 
known it. But only to think — ; well, to be sure. 
She has not lost time, at any rate." 

Now this was not at all the light in which the 
archdeacon wished that the matter should be regarded. 
He had been desirous that Lady Lufton should be 
horror-stricken by the tidings, but it seemed to him 
that she regarded tlie iniquity almost as a good joke. 
What did it matter how young or how old the girl 
might be? She came of poor people, — of people 
who had no friends, — of disgraced people; and Lady 
Lufton ought to feel that such a marriage would be a 
terrible misfortune and a terrible crime. "I need 
hardly teU you, Lady Lufton," said the archdeacon. 

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^Hhat I sball set my face against it as fur as it is in 
my power to do so." 

*'If they both be resolved I suppose yon can 
hardly prevent it" 

*'0f course I cannot prevent it Of course I cannot 
pErevent it If he will break my heart and his mother's, 
■— and his sister's, — of course I cannot prevent it 
If he will ruin himself, he must have his own way." 

**Ruin himself, Dr. Grantly!" 

"They will have enough to liv^upon, — some- 
where in Spain or France." The scorn expressed in 
the archdeacon^s voice as he spoke of Pan as being 
"somewhere in Spain or France," should have been 
heard to be understood. "No doubt they will bave 
enough to live upon." 

"Do you mean to say that it will make a dif- 
ference as to your own property, Dr. Grandy?" 

"Certainly it will. Lady Lufton. I told Henry 
when I first heard of the thing, — before he had 
definitely made any oflfer to the girl, — that I should 
withdraw from him alk)gether the allowance that I 
now make him, if be married her. And I told liim 
also, that if he persisted in his folly I should think it 
my duty to alter my will." 

"I am sorry for that. Dr. Grantly." 

"Sorry! And am not I sorry? Sorrow is no 
sufficient word. I am broken-hearted. Lady Lufton, 
it is killing me. It is indeed. I love him; I love 
him; — I love him as you have loved your son. But 
what is the use? What can he be to me when he 
shall have married the daughter of such a man as 

Lady Lufton sat for a while silent, thinking of a 

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certain episode in lier own life. There bad been a- 
time when her son wha desirons of mining a marriage 
*wbicb she had thought wonld break her heart She 
liad for a time moved heaven and earth, — as far as 
sbe knew how to move them, — to prevent the mar- 
riage. But at last she had yielded, — not from lack 
of power, for the circnmstanees had been snch that at 
the moment of yielding she had still the power in her 
hand of staying the marriage, — but she had yielded 
because she had perceived that her son was in earnest 
Sbe had yielded, and had kissed the dust; but from 
the moment in which her lips had so touched ihe 
ground, she had taken great joy in the new daughter 
whom her son had brought into the house. Since that 
ghe had learned to think that young people might 
perhaps be right, and that old people might perhaps 
he wrong. This trouble of her fi^end the archdeacon^s 
was very like her own old trouble. "And he is 
engaged to her now?" she said, when those thoughts 
had passed through her mind. 

"Yes; — that is, no. I am not sure. I do not 
know how to make myself sure." 

"I am sure Major Grantly will tell you all the 
truth as it exists." 

"Yes; he'll tell me the truth, — as far as he 
knows it I do not see that there is much anxiety to 
spare me in the matter. He is desirous rather of 
making me understand that I have no power of saving 
him from his own folly. Of course I have no power 
of saving him." 

"But is he engaged to her?" 

"He says that she has refused him. But of course 
that means nothing." 

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Again the archdeacon^s position was very like LacLy 
Lufton's position, as it had existed before her son^a 
marriage. In that case also the yonng ladj, who was 
now Lady Lufton's own daughter and dearest friend, 
had refused the lover who proposed to her, although 
the marriage was so much to her advantage, — loving 
him, too, the while, with her ^hole heart, as it was 
natural to auppose that Grace Crawley might so. love 
her lover. The more she thought of the similarity of 
the stories, the stronger were her sympathies on the 
side of poor Grace. Nevertheless, she would comfort 
her old Mend if she knew how; and of course she 
could not but admit to herself that the match was one 
which must be a cause of real sorrow to him. "I 
don^t know why her refnsal should mean nothing,^' 
said Lady Lufton. 

"Of course a girl refuses at first, — a girl, I mean, 
in such circumstances as hers. She can^t but feel that 
more is offered to her than she ought to take, and 
that she is bound to go through the ceremony of 
declining. But my anger is not with her, Lady 

**I do not see how it can be." 

"No; it is not with her. If she becomes his wife 
I trust that I may never see her." 

"Oh, Dr. Grantlyl" 

"I do; I do. How can it be otherwise with me? 
But I shall have no quarrel with her. With him I 
must quarrel." 

"I do not see why," said Lady Lufton. 

"Ton do not? Does he not set me at defiance?" 

"At his age surely a son has a right to many as 
he pleases." 

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*'If he took her out of the streets, then it would 
be the Slime?" said the archdeacon with bitter anger. 

"No; — fiur such a One would herself be bad." 

''Or if she were the daughter of a huzter out of 
the city?" 

''No again; — for in that case her want of educa- 
tion would probably unfit her for your society." 

"Her fiither's disgrace, then, should be a matter 
of indifference to me, Lady Lufton?" 

"I did not say so. Li the first place, her &ther 
is not disgraced, — not as yet; and we do not know 
whether ,he may ever be disgraced. Ton will hardly 
be disposed to say that persecution from the palace 
disgraces a clergyman in Barsetshire." 

"All the same, I beHeve tliat the man was guilty," 
said the archdeacon. 

"Wait and see, my friend, before you condemn 
him altogetiber. But, be that as it may, I acknowledge 
that the marriage is one which must naturally be dis- 
tasteM to you." 

"Oh, Lady LuAonI if you only knewl If you 
only knewl" 

"I do know; and I foel for you. But I think that 
your son has a right to expect that you should not 
show the same repugnance to such a marri^e aa 
this as you would have had a right to show had he 
suggested to himself such a wife als those at which you 
just now hinted. Of course you can advise him, and 
make him understand your feelings; but I cannot 
think you will be justified in quarrelling with him, or 
in changing your views towards him as regards money, 
seeing that Miss Crawley is an educated lady, who 
has done nothing to foifeit your respect" A heavy 

Tk$ Laa CkrmMi of BamU 2L 2^00gle 

i02 . TOm LAST. COBQ^ICLJS OS* 94i^]SXt^ 

Miloni came .upon thdaichdeMon^^ brOw a» lie. heard 
these words, hut he did. aot make. Any iram0diat# 
answer.. **0f eoarsey my friend/* icontin^ed Lady 
liufton, ^^I should not ha^e wmixmi to. fay 90 much 
to you, had you not come to me, as it wei'ei for my 

^'I came here faeoanse I thought Henry was here^V 
said ^e archdeacon. 

"If I have said too much I heg your pardon." * 

"No; you have not said too much. It is not that. 
Tou and I are such old friends that either may say 
almost anything to the other." 

"Yes; — just so. And therefore I have venture^ 
to speak niy mind," si4d, I^ady Xufton. 

"Of course; — and I am obliged to you. But;, 
Lady Lufton, yo^ do not understspdd yet how this hits 
me. £>r^ything in life that I have done, I have done 
for my children. I am wealthy, but I have not used 
' my wealth for myself, because I have desired ths^ 
they should be able to hold their heads high in the 
world. All my ambition has been for them, and aU 
the pleasure which I have anticipated for myself in 
my old age is that which I have hoped to reeeive 
.from their credit. As for Henry, he might have had 
anything he. wanted from me in the way of money^ 
He expressed a widi, a few months since, to go into 
Parliament, and I prcmiised to help him as far aa ever 
I eonld go. I have kept up the game altogether for 
him. He, the younger son of a working paridi paraoa^ 
has had everything that could be. given to the eldest 
son of a country gentleman, -^ more than is giv^i to 
^he eldest son o^ many a peer. I have hoped that he 

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Ttffi AfttJttr>»AC01t ^OfiS TO t'RAMttJT. 408 

Wotild fiiaity agwn, btit'I havi never cared that lie 
should ttiairy for mdney. I have been willing to do 
anything fot him myself* Bnt, Lady Lnfton, a father 
does fed that he should have some return for all thi^. 
No one ^n imagine that Henry ever supposed that a 
bride from fha* wretched place at Hogglestoek could 
he welcomed among us. He knew that he would 
breiak' ottr heartB, and he did not care for it That is 
what I feel. *0{ coursfe he has the power to do as he 
Bfc^sv -^ and of course 1 have the power to d6 as I 
like also with what is my own," 

Lady Lufton was a very good woman, devoted 4;6 
her duties, affectionate and just to those about her, 
truly religious, and charitable from her na4tire; but I 
doubt whether the thorough worldliness of the arch^ 
deacon^s appeal struck her as it will strike the reader. 
People are so much more worldly in practice than 
they lare in theory, so much keener after their own 
gratification in detail than they are in the abstract, 
that the narrative of many an adventure would shock 
lis, though the same adventure would not shock us in 
the action. One girl tells another how she has changed 
her mind in love; and the friend sympathizes with the 
friend, and perhaps applauds. Had the story been told 
In print, the friend who had listened with equanimity 
would have read of such vacillation with indignation, 
She who vacillated herself would have hated her own 
performance when brought before her judgment as a 
matter in which she had no personal interest. Very 
fine things are written every day about honesty and 
truth, and men read them with a sort of external con^ 
yiction that a man , if he be anything of a man at all, 
is of course honest and true. But when the internal 



convictions are brongbt out between t^o or tjuree who 
are personally interested together, — ][)e^^n two cur 
three who feel that their little gathering is, so to s^j^ 
"tiled," — those internal conviations d^er vwy much 
from the external convictions. Thi0 neuin, in 149 con- 
fidences, asserts broadlj that he does not mfiW to be 
thrown over, and that man has a project fi»r throwing 
over somebody else; and the intention of (Mcb is tbat 
scniples are not to stand in the way of bis snccess. 
The "Bnat coslnm, fiat jnstitia," was said, no doubt^ 
from an outside balcony to a crowd i and the i^jBaker 
knew that he was talking bnncombe. The "Bep^i si 
possis recte, si non, quocnnque mode," was whispered 
into the ear in a clnb smoking-room, and the whisperer 
intended that his w<Hrds should prevail. 

Lady Lufton had often heiurd her friend the arch- 
deacon preach, and she knew well the high tone which 
he could take as to the necessity of trusting to our 
hopes for Hie future for all our true bappiness; imd 
yet she sympathized with him when he told her that 
he was broken-hearted because his son would take a 
step which might possibly interfere with his worldly 
prosperity. Had the archdeacon been preaching about 
matrimony, he would have recommended young men, 
in taking wives to themselves, especially to look for 
young women who feared the Lord. But in talking 
about his own son*s wife, no word as to her eligibility 
or non-eligibility in this respect escaped his lips. Had 
he talked on die subject till nightfall no such word 
would have been spoken. Had any friend of his own^ 
man or woman, in discussing such a matter with him 
and asking his advice upon it, alluded to the fear of 
the Lord, the allusion would have been distasteful 

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to kim and would have smacked to 148 palate of 
kypocmj. Lady Lufton, who uad^ntojod aa wfifl a^ 
any woman wliat it was to be **til(4*' with a &iei^^ 
took all this in good pert The ai^h4eacop ha4 /spoken 
eat of his heart whiMk w^ i^ql his heiM^ One of his 
ehildren had married « marqitis. AntOiOier n^ght pro- 
bably become a bishop, — perhaps an archbishop. 
The third might be a coniM^ si^uire, — bij^h among 
county squires. But he could only so become by 
walking warily; — and now he was bent on marrying 
the penniless daughter of an impoverished half-piad 
country curate, who was about to be tried for stealing 
twenty pounds I Lady Luflton, in spite of all her 
arguments, could not refuse her sympathy to her old 

^ After all, from what you 0ay, I suppose lliey are 
not engaged.*' 

**I do not know,'' said the archdeacon. "I cannot 

"And what do you wish me to do?" 

"Oh, — nothing. I came ovei', as I said before, 
because I thought he was here. I think it right, be- 
fore he has absolutely committed himsdf, to take every 
means in my power to make him understand that I 
shall withdraw from him all pecuniary assistance, — 
now and for the friture." 

"My friend, that threat seems to me to be so 

"It is the only power I have left to me." 

"But you, who are so affectionate by nature, would 
nev^ adhere to it" 

"I will try. I will do my best to be firm. I will 
at once put everything beyond my control a|ter my 

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^i^ath.^^ .Th6 at<^ieac(»n, ad ke uttered t&ese tembl# 
urordfl,' — words ^hkh' were awfal to Lkwly-JLttftoii^^ 
ears, -^-resolved that h^ wtotdd «iidearr«iiir ta knuree hia 
own wrath ^, but, at the same tiite^ akniOBt liated Iksti 
self for hi^ owb pusUlankni^^ beeaUM-h^ feared tha* 
his wrath would die awaf blifore -ha^ ^obM have 
availed hiihs^lf of its heat 

"1 would do nothing rash of that kind " said Lady 
Lufton. **Ybtir pbject is to prevent the marriage, — » 
not to punish him for it when once he bas inade it*' '' 

"He is not to have bid own way in every thing[ 
Lady Lufton.*^ [ 

"But you should first try to' prevent it^ 

"What can I do to prevent it?'* ] 

Lady Lufton paused for a couple of minutes before 
she replied. She had a scheme in her head, but it 
seemed to her to savour of cruelty. And yet at pre- 
sent it was her chief duty to assist her old Mend, if 
any assistance 'could be gi^en. There could hardly be 
,a doubt that su^h a marriage as ibis, of which they 
were speakingy was, in itself aii evil. Jxx her case, the 
case of her Qon^ there had been no question of a trials 
ofjnoney stplen, of aughjb t}iat was in truth disgraper 
ful. "I think if I were you. Dr. Grahtly," she aaid, 
"that I would see the young lady while I. was here.** , 

"See her myself?** sai^ the archdeacon. The idea 
of seeing Grace Crawley himself had, up to thia mo^ 
ment, never entered his bend* 

"I think I would do sd.!V 

"I think I will,*' said the archdeacon, after :% 
pause. Then he got up from his chair. "If I am to 
do it, I had better do itiat once^" m 

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"Be gentle with ber, my friend." The archdeacon 
paused again. He certainly had entertained the idea 
of encountering Miss Crawley with severity rather than 
gentleness. Lady Lufton rose from her seat, and 
coming up to him, took one of his hands between her 
own two. "Be gentle to her," she said. "You have 
owned that she has done nothing wrong." The arch- 
deacon bowed bis head in token of assent and left the 

Poor Grace Crawley! 


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